


why doesn't the caged bird sing

by fefedove



Category: Chinese Actor RPF, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV) RPF
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood and Gore, Chains, Character Death, Child Abuse, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Linear Narrative, Pedophilia, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Slavery, Underage Rape/Non-con, Underage Sex, Violence, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fefedove/pseuds/fefedove
Summary: 囚鳥Wang Yibo buys a pretty little thing.
Relationships: Wang Yi Bo/Xiao Zhan | Sean
Comments: 82
Kudos: 197





	1. one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: this piece of fiction has nothing to do with the actors in real life
> 
> a very self-indulgent fic  
> thank you kai for being my cheerleader owo

“Master, it is time to travel to Lord Pi's residence for the banquet.”

The man nods without looking at the maid. He leans back in his seat, stretching the cramped muscles, before standing up.

The maid helps him into a heavy tailored coat and opens the door for him. It is a bleak, winter day and, having snowed a few hours ago, the sky is still a dreary gray.

His breaths form puffs of smoke in the brisk, cold air. They fog up the windows when he enters the car. The workers have not yet had the time to shovel the snow and it creaks as the wheels roll over, crushing the mounds of white into gray slush.

Tonight's banquet is one of many that he must attend since his father's death and Pi Chenzhu is one of the many old men that he must show his face to, in order to assert that he is the new head of the family.

He detests them—both the banquets and the old men.

Well, no. He does not harbor any of such intense feelings toward them. Rather, they are nothing more than just weeds that he must make peace with before the time comes to do away with them. He has already waited for the month-long mourning period to end, for his coming-of-age ceremony to come, for Uncle Han to deem him ready to take over the family business.

The time will come, eventually. Soon.

And indeed, he welcomes these opportunities to show that he is not a mere replacement of his father.

He is Wang Yibo.

There are things that he can finally do now.

When he arrives at the Pi mansion, he frowns in distaste. The building is how most residences of his class are—reeking of arrogance and wealth, but neither culture nor refinement. The Wang mansion is no different, forming a domineering and ominous silhouette in the night, and it does nothing to help him view the Pi mansion in a more positive light.

He alights and sends the driver away. No servant comes to welcome him and the dirty snow clumps under his leather boots. Cold air chafes at his skin. His annoyance grows a bit deeper.

Wang Yibo walks through the gated entrance and passes the stables area. The stables are infrastructure left behind from yonder years that the old men cannot bear to tear down. Instead, they are left to be weathered away by time, filling with dirt and grime. And they are the prime place to punish a slave or leave them to die.

He glimpses some sad-looking beings chained to the posts. Rather than slaves left outside the banquet after their masters exchanged them for prettier pets supplied by Pi Chenzhu, they look more like rags shivering in the biting wind. Would their masters remember to fetch them after the night? It is hard to say.

What catches Wang Yibo's attention, however, is the small commotion closer to the mansion. A pair of bare legs stretch out from the cluster of three or four men. Slender and pale, they stand in stark contrast to the rough, black trousers of the servants' uniform.

As he nears, he catches glimpses of the body between the jostling limbs. The servants seem torn between beating the body to a bloody lump or fucking him to oblivion. They mutter curses and pant heavily, grunting and spitting. The slave himself exists like a tattered flag.

Wang Yibo comes to a stop.

He kicks aside a chain on the ground with a boot-clad foot and clears his throat.

"What," he intones, "are you doing."

Rather than a curious question, it is more of a statement of his presence. At his voice, the servants fall aside immediately. One gives the slave a final kick before dropping him and standing in front, making a half-hearted attempt of covering the lump on the ground.

One man, calmer and more composed than the others, bows. "Young Master Wang," he greets politely. "I-"

The sharpness that exudes from Wang Yibo cuts him off mid-sentence.

Blanching, the servant stammers, "L-Lord Wang, my, my apologies that this is the first thing you see when arriving at Lord Pi's residence. My apologies for dirtying your eyes."

The man is well-spoken—for a servant—but Wang Yibo makes the words wither away with a piercing gaze. He directs those eyes toward the slave in question. The servant standing in the way quickly moves aside, his fists undoubtedly clenching and unclenching nervously under the sleeves of his ill-fitting uniform.

The slave lies on the ground how the servant had thrown him down—not having curled into himself out of pain, the cold, not having moved to cover in vain the skin exposed by his ripped shift, not having budged a tiny fraction.

He lies there, shockingly pale in stark contrast to the ashen snow. Like a heap of satin stripped down and tossed to the side for a moment of primal lust.

Wang Yibo has seen many wretched, beautifully ravaged beings in his life, and this one is not special. Not exactly.

“What’s the problem?” He looks up after asking, gazing steadily at the head servant.

“H-he…”

“This our master’s slave,” another servant pipes up. “Lord Wang,” he remembers to add. “He’s ’sposed to serve the guests today, but he won’t cooperate. We’re…”

“We are trying to fix the problem, Lord Wang,” the first servant finishes. He looks expectantly at Wang Yibo before dropping his eyes as if burned by the touch.

“Fix the problem?” Wang Yibo repeats, arching an eyebrow. It seemed more likely that they were trying to fix their own problems with this abandoned toy, pleasuring themselves with the table scraps of the elites.

“Fed ‘im three times the drugs and it didn’t do shit,” the servant who’d tried hiding the slave earlier mutters.

“Lord Wang!” the head servant cries. “My apologies for his language. I—”

The lord motions with his chin for the man to move. He scurries away.

Walking toward the slave, Wang Yibo lowers onto a knee and lifts his chin up. The slave stares at—stares through—Wang Yibo, unseeingly.

It is an overused cliché to describe a being as a doll, but this slave is just that. His porcelain skin is painted with blue and red blossoms that converge into dots of yellow, connected by purple stems. His features are delicate so that, when shattered, one will never know how to glue the pieces back again.

And his eyes. They are such prettily shaped glass orbs—dirty glass with a layer of dust that no one has bothered to wipe away tenderly in years.

Wang Yibo’s gaze trails to the slave’s lips and the corner of his own curls up.

Standing, he looks at the head servant until the man quivers under the weight.

“I want him.”

The shock is written all over the servant’s face, but the other one quickly bends down to pick up the slave’s leash. Offering it to Wang Yibo with both hands, he says ingratiatingly, “Lord Wang, this one is tricky.”

Wang Yibo, sparing him a glance, takes the leash. The leather—damp with melted snow and sticky blood—disgusts him, but he grasps the handle tightly. It digs into his palm.

He tugs the leash and begins striding toward the mansion. The slave—forced to life by the pull—scrambles on all fours to follow, but nothing he does breaks Wang Yibo’s stride. He does not seem to even notice the thing trailing behind him.

“L-Lord Wang,” the head servant calls out. “Shall I notify my master for you?”

Wang Yibo does not deem him worthy of a reply.

An attendant finally greets Wang Yibo at the entrance of the mansion and leads him to the banquet hall.

The banquet hall is bright. Warm. Loud.

Gauzy colors, glittering décor, clattering and clinking of utensils, and the low murmur of chatter rush to Wang Yibo as soon as the two guards open the doors for him. It irks him to the bone.

Before the slave could even come to a stop behind him, Wang Yibo walks through the doors, giving the leash a harsh tug.

Pi Chenzhu is easy to spot. He is seated at the head of the innermost table. His balding head gleams under the chandelier’s light; he is practically glowing.

Wang Yibo strides straight to him. All attendants jump out of the way and bow at him, but not many of the guests, drunk on wine and lust, notice him.

Not until he smashes a bottle of wine against Pi Chenzhu’s table and holds it up to him for a toast.

“Ah, Yibo,” Pi Chenzhu utters with shallow familiarity, swallowing his shock. He looks from the young man’s eyes to the broken bottle in his hands, red wine trickling down his arm like blood, and back to his eyes. As someone who has been in the trade for so many decades, he knows how to pretend that nothing out of the ordinary could faze him. “Or, rather,” he continues pleasantly, “I should call you Lord Wang now, should I not?”

“Of course, Lord Pi.” The skin of Wang Yibo’s face moves into a smile. “That is why I am here, after all.”

“My condolences.” Pi Chenzhu clinks his crystal against the bottle and takes a sip of the wine. “And congratulations.”

Wang Yibo brings the jagged bottle to his lips and downs the contents. He throws the empty bottle down and raises the hand with the leash.

“I want this one,” he starts without preamble.

Seeing the creature behind Wang Yibo, Pi Chenzhu blanches. That is one of his newest slaves and he hasn’t even earned back the expenses yet, but he doesn’t dare to ask a price from this young, almost maniacal, Lord Wang.

“Th-that one is a bit of trouble,” he begins.

Wang Yibo sets a bar of gold onto the table. The solid clunk echoes through the room that has fallen silent. “Bring the necessary paperwork to my study before noon tomorrow.”

“Yibo, I cannot possibly find a qualified doctor and lawyer in this short time.” The amount of disdain Pi Chenzhu actually has for Wang Yibo finally shows through his clenched jaw.

Wang Yibo gazes at him. “I can.”

With that, he turns to leave, tugging at the leash again. The broken glass crunches under the soles of his boots as he makes his way past the other shell-shocked guests. He doesn’t seem to notice the slave walking through the glass in his tow—the slave himself doesn’t seem to notice either, reacting only to the pull on his leash.

When he arrives at the main entrance of the mansion, the guards quickly pull the heavy doors open. The attendant on the side steps over, holding up an umbrella. “Lord Wang, it is snowing. May I assist you to your car?”

Wang Yibo gazes out of the doors. “It’s snowing,” he murmurs, not repeating the attendant’s words but as if coming to this realization by himself.

He turns around. He sees the bloody smears that lead to where he stands now and the slave standing obediently behind him. Even with the leather handle digging into his palm, it can be easy to forget about the slave’s silent existence.

Without a word, he pushes the handle into the slave’s own hands. Then he takes off his tailored coat and lets it fall on the slave’s shoulders. The string of actions is performed expressionlessly and almost carelessly, and yet bystanders would only see the grand flourish as the coat swings and settles, draping over the slave.

It’s an uncomfortable sight, like a clown with smeared makeup trying to fit into a suit. His wrists are shackled and tied to the leash, so the coat’s long sleeves hang limply down his side. It does nothing to hide his exposed and ravaged body. It weighs down too heavily.

But it is a strangely beautiful sight—a protective cover thrown over a stolen art piece of satin and frostbite.

Wang Yibo lowers himself just a bit and cocks his head, peering up. The slave instinctively averts his gaze, but there is nowhere to hide unless he looks up.

Wang Yibo doesn’t seem to notice.

“Do not let the coat fall,” he says. “I do not like my things to be dirtied.”

Then he takes the leash from the slave’s hold, moving to pry the fingers loose but the handle comes free easily. The leather is cold; it warms quickly in his palm.

He straightens and heads out. The attendant scurries after him, trying to keep the umbrella above Lord Wang’s head so as to protect him from the weightless snowflakes.

The snow isn’t heavy enough to stick and they melt as soon as they touch the ground, absorbed by the dirty slush. It’s strange how it happens—how something used so often as imagery for purity can become tainted so easily. Melt into the dirtiness and disappear entirely.

They leave small wet spots on Wang Yibo’s boots. Annoyance sets in again, but he doesn’t break his stride.

His driver knew to wait close by. The man hurries out to open the door for his master. If he is surprised at the new addition, he doesn’t show it. He does, however, move to take the leash from Wang Yibo and lead the slave to the back compartment where he belongs.

Wang Yibo ignores the outstretched hand. Getting into the car, he pulls the slave in. He reaches over and secures the end of the leash to a hook on the side of the seat. Understanding now, the driver hurriedly moves to fasten bands to the slave’s ankles as well.

The car is quite spacious inside, so the slave is not sitting exactly close to him, but close enough. The coat sleeves splay to the sides, almost touching Wang Yibo.

The journey is quiet. Everything seems muffled by the falling snow—until the slave begin trembling.

Wang Yibo glances over and does not look away. Drugged slaves are nothing out of the ordinary, but just like before, there is something that compels him to continue looking in interest.

The slave convulses violently. His eyes are alive with life that does not belong to him, deep and dark. In this state, his entire aura is pleading for Wang Yibo to relieve him, but the man does nothing of the sort. He watches, with faint amusement.

The slave’s head lolls back and his mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. He is still silent—has been silent since Wang Yibo first laid his eyes upon him—but the chains clink on their own accord.

Wang Yibo remembers the servant saying proudly that they’d fed the slave three times the dosage of drugs without soliciting the expected effect. The slave has held out for long enough (or perhaps it is nothing so tragically brave and he has just grown immune to it all, numb), but his body betrays him.

He is restrained by the shackles, by his own will, but what value does a slave’s will hold? Not even his body is his own.

But he is still beautiful, despite everything. Night has fallen and, as the car steers down the path, the streetlamps send their glow through the fogged windows, casting the slave in soft light and shadows. He keens soundlessly while struggling and rubbing against the restraints. His hands move, trying so desperately to touch himself, _anything_ , pulling the leather taut, and the coat on his shoulders falls down to the seat.

Wang Yibo looks down at it. His brows furrow slightly.

When he moves closer—close enough for their lips to touch—he can hear the soft gasps of breath.

“Finally,” Wang Yibo murmurs, his gaze trailing down to the slave’s parted lips. At his voice, the slave goes still as if petrified. He stares at up at Wang Yibo, unable to look away and, for once, an emotion of his own colors his eyes.

He lifts the coat back up, covering the slave’s trembling shoulders. “I missed you, Daddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is no daddy kink in this fic


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As with animals, there are many ways to procure a slave in this society, depending on one’s expectations and intentions. It is the difference between snatching a stray off the streets for instant gratification and pleasure, and purchasing a purebred for companionship and affection.

The slave does not open his eyes as soon as he awakes. He knows better than this.

Two decades of experience has taught him that pretending to be asleep, to be unconscious, might not help him avoid what is awaiting, but it could at least be delayed. It could give him enough time to prepare. To cocoon his mind in that safe world of his own.

So, with his eyes still closed, he tries sensing his surroundings. There is so much pain, in so many different ways that it all blends into a featureless block. It is easier to ignore that way.

Wherever he is, it is bright—not natural lighting, but he is not in a bedroom. At least, the ground beneath him is hard. It feels like some sort of tile. The collar is still around his neck, but his hands and arms seem to be free. It does not matter. It is no longer in him to escape, never was in him to fight back.

The room is quiet. He can only hear his own soft breathing. Perhaps they had left him in this room after the night. He should be alone, but he still does not dare to budge. Instead, he cracks his eyes open ever so slightly.

His eyelashes feel stuck together and the sudden brightness stabs into his brain. It takes a moment for his vision to adjust and a part of the room comes into view. From his angle, he can only see a white table with a faucet—a bathroom sink.

And a man sitting on the table, back resting against the wall.

He stares, unable to look away.

The man opens his eyes and meets his.

Sudden fear grips his heart and blood pounds so heavily against his throbbing temple. Everything he has experienced should have made him immune, but he has never felt more fear than now.

A moment like this has plagued many of his fever dreams and nightmares before. But this time, it’s not a mere figment of his imagination.

He does not remember much from last night—his mind wasn’t there—but he remembers a coat, a voice, the feeling of horror taking over.

But the man merely glances at him. Then the man pushes off from the wall and leaves the room.

The fear is still palpable on his tongue.

The seconds drag past, his senses on high alert, trying to catch any sign of the man returning. But really, he is not sure if anything he could do would be enough preparation. If any fleeing could be enough distance. If _distance_ even means anything between them.

When he hears footsteps nearing, he does not know what to do, how to act. The panic is foreign to him. The fear is so much so that he forgets the pain, but he cannot hide into the familiar void.

The door opens with a click and his eyes flit over involuntarily. A maid shuffles in. From his angle, the old woman has kind features, but this does nothing to ease his mind.

She halts when she sees him and looks behind immediately. The man appears again.

“Young Master.” Her voice is full of an emotion that the slave cannot understand. He can barely register the words; a strange buzz has started sounding in his ears, growing louder steadily. “Young Master, is this—”

“Strip him.”

His voice is different now. It should not matter to a slave whether his master’s voice is familiar or strange, but it is so cold. So flat and merciless. It cuts into the incessant buzz and cuts off the old maid’s sentence.

The maid looks back at the slave but does not approach him, hesitating until she can no longer bear the weight of the man’s sharp gaze. Finally, she walks toward the slave. She reaches hesitatingly for the leather tethering him, but she seems not to know what to do.

Strip him?

It is perhaps not something an old maid is trained to do.

The slave moves tentatively, on his own accord, climbing up and kneeling on the cold floor. This way, he can bow his head and lower his gaze. This way, he only has to watch if the man’s shoes walking toward him or lose himself in the white tiles.

Bits of the thin satin stick to his open wounds, but he barely feels it when it is torn away. The sullied fabric joins the blinding white beneath his eyes.

“Stand.”

The tips of the shoes do not move towards him, but the slave knows that the order is directed at him. He obeys.

The leash is surprisingly loose, but the leather still pulls taut when he rises, forcing him to stoop forward ever so slightly. It’s okay. This is how he is used to standing.

And he is used to eyes raking his naked body, but standing before the maid and the man, he feels the strange urge to hide himself. He can sense the man’s eyes observing every inch of his body and he feels so ugly and dirty—the brown blood, yellow pus caked to his skin; the bright bruises and discolored scars; the raised brands and burns; even to his hands, limp by his side, to the ragged and missing fingernails.

It is cold in this room of white, but he feels the heat of shame.

Without warning, the pointed shoes and turn and walk towards the slave. He wills his muscles to not move, to not betray himself. He awaits what will come next with baited breath.

Whatever it is, it does not come. By now, the slave should know that this man does not act like the others. He seems intent in tormenting his mind, but he knows that he is overthinking.

The man reaches for something beside him—a showerhead—and gives it to the maid.

“Wash him,” he orders. “And bring him to my study.”

“Young Master, shall I give him…food?” the maid asks with a quivering voice.

It is odd. The questions, the orders, the emotions. All of this is odd to the slave.

“Wash him,” the man repeats. Each word is like a nail pinging against the bare white walls. “And bring him directly to my study.”

“Y-yes, Young Master.”

Both the slave and the maid wait for the master to leave. The door swings shut behind him and the maid visibly relaxes. She sighs many, many times, during the showering, but she does not speak to the slave. Nor is she able to soften the harsh stream of water.

The first icy spray almost sends the slave stumbling back, despite bracing himself for the impact. He suddenly realizes what everything in this room reminds him of.

There was another room like this before, with sterile white walls, cold tiled floor, devoid of all human touch. He can’t remember if it was the one where he was kept as a child or the one later on—his memories are so fragmented. He remembers the eyes of disdain at his imperfections.

They made him stand in a fenced area with so many other naked bodies. Was it winter or summer? But the water was so cold. The spray was so strong that he fell to his knees, could not stand up, begged for them to stop, but it could not wash away the dirtiness that permeated him.

He was sold anyway. Despite it all.

The water stops without a warning or climax. The maid hangs the showerhead back onto the hook and takes the slave’s leash. She looks at him.

The slave meets her eyes for an unprepared moment before dropping his gaze, as he should.

“Come,” the maid murmurs. “Follow me.”

As with animals, there are many ways to procure a slave in this society, depending on one’s expectations and intentions. It is the difference between snatching a stray off the streets for instant gratification and pleasure, and purchasing a purebred for companionship and affection. The latter, clearly more expensive and well-liked by the upper class, comes with a set of paperwork and procedures.

All of the complications, of course, are put in place to ensure the buyer’s customer rights. Many owners love to torture and ravage their playthings, but no one would be happy to learn that their newly-purchased pet is dying of an infectious disease.

So, in order to officialize the purchase, the buyer has the right to invite a doctor for a medical examination, and a lawyer to oversee the entire procedure. If the seller tries to cover up something wrong with the slave, then they would be liable for all expenses.

It is designed to protect the buyer’s rights. But really, the complications would deter any frivolous noble from using it. What does it matter if they accidentally buy a dying slave? At most, they buy a new one and demand compensation from the buyer for the wasted time. Perhaps punish the buyer socially for lying and making them lose face.

Wang Yibo is someone who hates such showy processes, cumbersome with annoying and pretentious details. But he hates Pi Chenzhu even more.

When he leads the doctor and lawyer into his study, the slave is standing in the center of the room obediently. He is naked, save for the leather around his slender neck. Now that the grime and dried blood has been washed away, the colorful splotches all over stand out even more against the pallor of the canvas. In the study, surrounded by dusty wooden bookshelves, he stands like the final masterpiece of a mad artist.

The old maid, standing to the side, comes over now. “Young Master.”

Wang Yibo nods.

Soon, Pi Chenzhu is brought in.

“Lord Pi,” Wang Yibo greets. “Welcome.”

Wang Yibo had not specifically told him to come. Usually, if the seller is of as high a status as Lord Pi, they would only send an attendant or butler with the necessary paperwork. Wang Yibo must admit that it pleases him to see the man himself. It is a show of submission. And when else will he have a chance to make the old man sweat in his house?

Lord Pi smiles thinly. “Of course. I would not wish for anything to go wrong and negatively affect our relationship.”

Wang Yibo knows how to talk. He is a businessman, after all, and all business deals are made by talking. A silver tongue to create gold coins. But he never speaks more than he must, such as now. Ending the useless and faked pleasantries abruptly, he nods at the doctor.

The doctor is a stoic heavyset man in a white coat. He looks slightly uncomfortable. When Lord Wang personally contacted him at the break of dawn to come, he did not expect it to be for a slave’s medical examination.

As a doctor, he knows that he must respect all lives. All lives should be equal in his eyes and he must treat them as such. Some of his friends are veterinarians. They spend their days treating little animals and he respects that as well. Sometimes, he even picks up a stray cat from the street and nurses it back to health out of his own goodwill.

But for slaves… The fact that they are, in fact, human with a human mind makes them somehow more deplorable to him. They have a human’s intelligence, so how could they let themselves fall into this state? If they have the same feelings as a human, how could they allow such abuse to happen to themselves and not fight for freedom?

He does not understand; he does not believe that they deserve the same respect.

Alas, he agreed to come and the young Lord Wang is not someone he can go up against. Since he is here, he will examine this slave professionally and seriously. If anything goes wrong, he is not sure he can shoulder the responsibility.

Wang Yibo rests against his mahogany work desk, sitting on the edge, and watches the doctor. He does not understand the medical jargon as the man goes down the required checklist, muttering to himself, but Wang Yibo watches his every move, staring like a hawk.

Beside him, the lawyer stands with his arms crossed casually, tapping his pen against his arm. The rhythm is erratic, stopping and starting up again. A bit further to the side is Pi Chenzhu. He sweats despite the chill in the room, despite the fact that he tells himself he should not be so nervous around a man just out of puberty like Wang Yibo.

The silence—punctuated by the lawyer’s tapping and cushioned by the doctor’s murmurs—stretches for some time. Finally, the doctor offers the checklist to Wang Yibo with both hands.

He skims it quickly. There are many terms that he has never seen before, but every medical condition seems to be checked with a “yes.” He hands the paper to the lawyer and fixes his gaze back on the doctor, waiting wordlessly.

“Ah, yes.” The doctor clears his throat. “The slave is in good health.”

Wang Yibo arches an eyebrow.

“But he has an infectious disease.”

“Spit everything out at once,” Wang Yibo says coolly.

The doctor clears his throat again. “The slave has an infectious disease. Lord Wang, I will prescribe you the medicine needed. Unfortunately, I must advise you against any sexual activities with him until… until our next checkup… Next month?”

He knows why people purchase slaves. It scares the shit out of him to have to tell this young lord that he cannot do what he wants.

But Wang Yibo does not react, so he forges on.

“The slave is malnourished and has some, ah, broken bones—healing already, yes, but still not completely healed. I can create a dietary plan for you, Lord Wang, if you wish to fatten your slave up a bit?”

By now, the doctor is rambling. He does not know what information he is expected to say, because everything he is saying is making the lord’s eyes darker and colder.

He is not the only one growing nervous. Pi Chenzhu listens to him rattle off the problems with the slave while watching Wang Yibo. Many times, he wants to pipe up with a “I will expense that, do not worry” to appease him, but he also does not want to remind the young lord of his existence.

“And he has some injuries. If they’re not treated, they may become infected as well, maybe causing a fever. I will treat them, of course, and prescribe antibiotics and—”

“What about the drugs?”

“Excuse me?” The doctor wipes his forehead quickly.

Wang Yibo repeats, “The drugs.”

“O-oh! I can also provide you with the aphrodisiacs. We have a variety…”

The lord is still sitting on the edge of his table, ankles crossed, but now, he looks at the doctor with an unamused smile. “How long will it take for him to quit drugs?” The last two words are short and marcato.

“Ah,” the doctor utters, wiping at his forehead again. “It would depend on his usual dosage now. I would have to take a sample and test it in my office. But really, it would depend on how much he was usually given.”

“Not much!” Pi Chenzhu finally speaks. “I only give the amount according to government regulations, of course.”

“Last night, your men told me they gave this slave three times the usual amount,” Wang Yibo states.

The lawyer’s tapping starts up again.

Hearing Wang Yibo’s words, Pi Chenzhu curses—loud and vulgar. “Those bastards,” he spits out. “They don’t listen to me. I’ve told them many times and never allow them to be so wasteful!”

His expression and gestures are wild and exaggerated like a clown. Glancing over, Wang Yibo wants to laugh—laugh directly in the man’s face. How could he be so comical?

Wang Yibo looks back at the doctor. Annoyance starts to rise up in him again, like bile, and he just wants to get this shit over with.

“It sounds, sounds like the slave may be highly addicted already,” the doctor stammers. “It would be very dangerous to cut off the supply. Effective, but very dangerous. He could die. Of course, I would help you most professionally, but…”

Truthfully, he does not know why he is so nervous. Yes, this young man is the head of an old, powerful family, but there is no reason for Wang Yibo to hurt him in any way. This is a society run by law, after all. But Wang Yibo just sits on the edge of the table, ankles crossed casually, existing like an awning black hole.

“How long.”

Again with the marcato accented words. They dig into the doctor’s cranium.

How long? How would he know? He has never tried it before.

Licking his dry lips, he says, “Ah, one month? Lord Wang, if you are strict, I’m sure you will be strict, it should take, ah, around one month.” Gaining confidence and professionalism, he continues, “Lord Wang, I will prescribe medicine, antibiotics, and vitamins. And ointments. You need not worry. Within the month, he will be… free to do as wished.”

His monologue ends a bit weakly again and he curses himself inwardly, but Wang Yibo deems him worthy of a nod.

“I will expense that!” Pi Chenzhu finally snatches the chance to say. “It is my responsibility.”

The lawyer finally stops tapping his pen against his arm to add a new clause to the contract. The scritch-scratching of the pen against the paper makes Pi Chenzhu so uncomfortable. He wishes this whole thing will be over soon, but he knows that it’s far from done.

Next, they’ll have to agree on how he should provide the money, the time, the amount; and the doctor will have to make the promised prescriptions, arrange his next check-ups, and such, and such, and such.

He regrets coming, he really does. Regrets allowing Wang Yibo to take his slave. Regrets even inviting the man to his banquet. He’d just wanted to show off his wealth, power, and influence—show the new lord his place—but it had all backfired so tremendously.

Wang Yibo pushes off the edge of the table. “Speak to the housekeeper about specific arrangements.”

Pi Chenzhu’s insides coil in offense again. Wang Yibo knows how to talk. He has a way with words. _Speak to the housekeeper_ means that he is ordering the three men in this room, rather than if he said _I will have my housekeeper speak to you fine gentlemen._

The other two fine gentlemen in the room do not seem to be as offended. Of course, their social status is not as high as Pi Chenzhu.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Lord Pi says. “It is my responsibility.”

It is the second time he has said that phrase. It sounds just as empty as the first time. Wang Yibo clearly feels the same. Without even glancing at the old lord, he nods at the lawyer and turns to leave.

Throughout this entire stifling and irksome exchange, the slave did not make a single sound nor so much as move. He is the topic of the conversation, but it is not about him. He does not actually matter. To Pi Chenzhu, the doctor, and the lawyer, the only one who matters in this room is Wang Yibo.

As he walks past Pi Chenzhu, Wang Yibo pauses again and looks behind to the slave.

“Yu-ma, bring him back.”

The slave finds himself in the sterile bathroom again.

He does not know what had just happened—can’t remember clearly, there was a gloved hand prodding him. Now he is back. The white tiled floor does not feel as cold anymore, or maybe he has just gotten used to this new place of confinement.

The leash is still hooked next to the showerhead, but it is very loose. He can lay down if he wants; he can walk the vicinity of the room if he so pleases. (That thought does not appear in his mind.)

Bringing his knees in, he curls up against the sink. The countertop juts out slightly. It feels like shelter. But before his mind can escape elsewhere again, the bathroom door opens. He freezes on instinct and strains to listen to the movement.

Hearing shuffled steps, the fear subsides, but he remains frozen.

The old maid comes before him and lowers herself to his level. The slave meets her eyes, but still, he cannot make himself move. His body has never belonged to himself.

The woman does not speak to him—at least, she never utters an order or demand. She sets a tray down, the bowl in the center wobbling from her shaky hands. The warm aroma of soup drifts to the slave, curling in and dragging out things that he does not want to feel. Like hunger.

Picking up the plain ceramic bowl, she takes a spoonful of soup as if wanting to feed the slave. But when she finally looks at the slave, her hand trembles and the contents spill.

At this distance, the slave can see the wrinkles and age spots on the old woman’s hands. His own hands are clenched and hidden from view, but the woman puts the bowl down again and reaches for his hands. He does not struggle when she pulls them towards her, but she pries the fingers open with difficulty.

Those fingers are like soiled ivory paintbrushes—ghastly pale and then a dirty mix of purples and blues and blacks, the tips ragged and bitten like nubs. The maid holds them in her dry callused hands. Just holds them without a word, without any explanation.

At this distance, the slave can see the shine in the old woman’s rheumy eyes and emotions that he cannot understand. They crystallize and trickle down the lines carved into her cheeks by time. She cups his with a callused hand.

“Yatou, you really are back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading~


	3. three.

_Yatou, you really are back._

No, he does not want to be back. No, no, no, no, no.

_Everything will be alright now._

No, it will not.

No, this is not how it should be.

The slave wants to scream, to cry out, to say something, but no words come out. He has learned that he is never the one who matters. The callused hand spoon-feeding him the soup, the taste of the soup—all of it is so familiar. So familiar, achingly comfortable.

When the ceramic spoon reaches his lips, he opens and swallows.

When the warm hands reach for his cheek, he tilts into the hold like a tamed animal.

He has learned that this is what he should do.

The following days are fragmented torment. He fades in and out of consciousness, alternating between memories, nightmares, and reality.

Sometimes, faceless figures appear. Bodiless hands grab at him, pinching, prodding, prying. They twist him this way and that. He is a sack of clay to be molded into a ceramic figurine. Put into the kiln and baked, perfected, only to be shattered and smashed back together with cement.

Other times, someone silent and passive appears. When he thrashes and claws at his skin—oh, there are so many fire ants crawling up and down—strong arms hold him down. He still struggles like a rabid dog, squirming and twisting in the grip. His wild kicks hit something solid and with warmth. The arms hold him until he drifts back into an unconscious state.

Occasionally, he is sane. Clear-headed. Mind empty.

The old maid washes him with that merciless cold spray of water, washing away the filth that he seems to overflow with. He is disgusting—why is he so disgusting? But Yu-ma tends to him gently, nursing him back to health like he is a poor bird rescued from the streets. She applies salves, careful with the fresh bruises and angry red marks, and mixes the medicine with sweets.

She tells him, _This was your favorite soup_ , and he has no memory of the taste, but it is still so familiar. And she calls him _Yatou_ , murmurs it softly while soothing him, and he really does not know if this is a fever dream or present day.

~ ~ ~

Other children his age do not truly understand what death implies. It is just someone leaving and, for children, a farewell is never forever. When Wang Yibo’s mother dies, the six-year-old does not really understand either.

His mother has gone elsewhere, leaving him. All that remains is the black and white picture placed at the head of the casket. People come to leave flowers and tell him, _May your grief pass._

He is told that he must wear white and guard the casket for 49 days of mourning, but he does not understand why. On the third day alone with the shell of his mother, his caretaker comes to bring him home. He asks about the remaining 46 days, but Yu-ma tells him that something has happened at home and his father wants him back. He does not understand fully, but he follows the woman into the car.

It is winter.

The dreary sky and ashen snow on the street make the world seem like a grayscale picture, like the picture at the head of the casket. Yibo huffs against the window, fogging up the glass. Poking a finger out of his thick coat, he draws a blob on the pane.

“Look!” He pokes his caretaker.

“Young Master, what’s that?” Yu-ma asks with the genuine interest needed when talking to a child.

Yibo cocks his head and studies his drawing. It has started fading already, turning into droplets of water. He huffs another breath and retraces his strokes.

“A bird,” he decides.

The gray scenery outside appear inside the bird as the car speeds down the road until the window fogs up again. Yibo leans back, shrinking into his coat.

“Young Master, is something wrong?” Yu-ma asks.

“The bird’s gone,” Yibo mutters.

“Where did it go?”

He glances at the window again and frowns in deep thought. Shrugging, he replies, “It flew away.”

Night has already fallen by the time they arrive home. The Wang mansion has always looked scary under the moonlight like this.

The caretaker ushers Yibo in through the side entrance. Just as he enters, he sees his father leading someone up the stairs. From behind, Yibo can only see that the person is clad in a thin white nightgown-like attire and his bare legs are so thin and gangly.

The caretaker follows his eyes, but she quickly looks away without saying anything and continues to lead the young master to his room.

“Yu-ma, who’s that?” Yibo asks, his eyes large and round with curiosity.

Forced to stop and answer his question, Yu-ma sighs inwardly. “Young Master, that is your new…” She struggles to find the correct term—at least, an explanation appropriate for the child. “He will be like your mother,” she finally decides to say.

Yibo scrunches his face in confusion. “But he’s a boy.”

Yu-ma walks over and takes the little boy’s hands. “He will take care of you like your mother, Young Master. He can also play with you,” she promises, even though she has no clue if her words are true.

She does not know what Lord Wang has in store for the child bride he bought today. Or rather, she knows why Lord Wang bought the boy and what he plans to do with him, but how will the boy be allowed to spend the rest of his time here? She does not think she can ask the master, but it seems that she has to find out now, one way or another.

Yibo pulls his fingers out of the hold. “Yu-ma, is he like you?” he wonders out loud.

“No, Young Master. He is special,” Yu-ma answers patiently. “Come, Young Master. Let me help you get ready for bed.”

The boy trudges forward and follows his caretaker unenthusiastically.

Thirty minutes later, Yu-ma tucks Yibo into bed. He pulls the blanket over his face, leaving only his large round eyes visible.

“Yu-ma, what do I call him then?” he wonders, voice muffled from under the covers. “Mommy? Or Daddy?” This question has been in mind for all this time. It does not make sense.

“We can ask him for his name tomorrow,” Yu-ma says from the doorway. “Goodnight, Young Master.”

She turns off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and closes the door.

When morning comes, Yibo has almost forgotten about the strange boy he saw last night, but the boy is already sitting at the table when he pushes the door open to the dining room. He sits properly, back straight, arms down on his lap, eyes lowered.

The strange questions that confused Yibo the night before all come back. His first reaction is to back out of the room, shutting the door quickly, so he could look for Yu-ma to help him. He has never been one to talk to strangers first. But then he thinks, this is his home. This boy came to take care of and play with him. What is there to be scared of?

Before he could try again though, the caretaker appears around the corner of the corridor.

“Young Master,” she calls, slightly out of breath. “I was looking for you, but you weren’t in your room anymore.”

“Yu-ma,” Yibo whispers loudly. “That boy is in there.” He points at the door.

“Yes, Young Master, I saw him already,” Yu-ma answers. “Would you like to enter?”

“Did you ask him his name?” The boy does not intend to go anywhere until his questions are all answered, but he really has so many questions.

Yu-ma lowers her hands from the dining room door and shakes her head. “I think he might be mute.”

“What does that mean?”

“He doesn’t talk.” Yu-ma sighs. She found the boy earlier this morning, walking down the corridor alone.

Worried that he might be lost—how could he not, when it is only his first day here—she went over to ask him where he was going. He did not reply, just looking at her with wide eyes. She asked him multiple questions, trying to get an answer out of him, but only received a nod when she asked if he would like to eat. So, she led him to the dining room and told him to stay put.

“Then what are you going to call him?” Yibo continues asking.

Yu-ma replies simply, “Yatou.” It’s a simple name—not even a real name—but it is what her village called those who were not given a name by their parents.

Yibo scrunches his nose, not satisfied with the answer “But that’s for girls.”

“He is pretty,” is all Yu-ma can say.

Still, Yibo does not like it. As a six-year-old boy, he still thinks that girls have cooties. There is no way that he would play with a girl.

“Come, Young Master, let us go in. You can ask him yourself.”

At this closer distance, Yibo realizes just how _strange_ the boy is. They are sitting beside each other at the table, but Yibo can barely sense that the boy is there. Yu-ma is a constant in his life, hovering behind him at all times, but he can always feel that she’s there. But this boy… he is like a pretty figurine that one can forget about so easily.

He has questions to ask, but he does not know how. It feels _weird._

A servant enters through the door with a platter of pancakes, filling the room with the warm aroma. Yu-ma comes over to help cut the pancakes for him. When she reaches for the syrup, he stops her.

“I want to do it myself,” he declares. He’s grown up, after all. And he doesn’t want this new boy to think that he can’t do anything.

But when he looks over, he sees that the boy hasn’t moved. His head is still lowered.

Frowning, Yibo nudges him and the boy’s head flies up immediately.

“Why don’t you eat?”

The boy looks from Yibo to the pancakes at the center of the table. Hands on his lap, he subconsciously scrunches up the fabric of his white gown.

Yibo studies him for a second. The boy’s hesitation is weird. Deciding to be a good host, he stabs a few pieces with a fork and plops it onto the boy’s plate.

“You have to add a lot of syrup,” he explains, pouring the sticky sap out of the silver sauce boat. “It’s better this way, trust me.”

The syrup dribbles down the side of the sauce boat, making a sticky mess on the table. But Yibo is proud of his proud of his work and he looks at the boy expectantly.

“Try it,” he urges.

Hesitantly, the boy picks up his fork and eats a piece. He does not say anything and, to be honest, Yibo does not expect him to say anything. It has only been around ten minutes, but he is already used to this.

“Good, right?”

The boy nods.

Yibo takes his own fork and eats a few bites. Lips sticky with syrup, he asks, “So, what’s your name?”

But the boy does not answer anymore. He looks up at Yibo, but quickly lowers his gaze. His hand shrinks back to his lap.

Yibo frowns. He has given his secret to good pancakes to the boy and now, they should be friends. Is he really mute, like Yu-ma said? Then how can they play together?

He decides to try one more time. “Yu-ma said that you’re supposed to be like my new mom. Do I call you like that, then? Or Daddy?” That was the question he had last night. The boy is older than him, clearly, but his father is a stern man with graying hair and a perpetually angry expression, and this boy is nothing like that.

The boy just bites his lip.

“I’ll just think of something else,” Yibo huffs, shoving a forkful of pancake into his mouth. “You’re no fun,” he complains with a full mouth.

To his surprise, the boy quickly places more food onto Yibo’s plate and nudges the sauce boat towards him. Either as an act of friendship or servitude.

~ ~ ~

There is a world inside the slave’s mind, a harbor and refuge where he is safe and alone. In this world, there is no pain, no sorrow, no happiness, no emotions—nothing. He can just exist in the void, in peace. Once he goes into this world, no one can ever pull him out forcefully.

Wang Yibo shatters this world.

He breaks in like a beast in a garden, trampling the flowers. All of it disintegrates, crumbling, collapsing, caving in. The slave shrinks himself smaller and smaller inside this world, but he is bare and exposed to the outside now.

_Yatou, Yatou, sh… It’s okay now._

Slaves are fed a multitude of drugs—to make them beg for sex, to make them docile, to make it easier for them to survive on little to no food, to make them numb.

This slave does not need any drugs to help numb himself, but chained inside the sterile bathroom, the slave realizes just how dependent he is on the drugs. His body—never belonged to himself—rebels, screaming for whatever he had before.

He curls on the ground, shivering and covered in cold sweat. They’ve resorted to chaining him down and now, the metal clanks against the tiles as he trembles. The old maid kneels beside him, forcing medicine down his throat.

Unable to control himself, unable to swallow properly, the bitter liquid dribbles down his cheek. It pools on the white tiles, mixing with the vomit.

The master stands, leaning against the sink, watching the slave with his arms crossed.

“Young Master,” Yu-ma says, looking up at him. Her voice sounds waterlogged. “This is too painful…”

Wang Yibo uncrosses his arms and walks over to the slave. “He deserves it.”

He lowers onto one knee and studies the slave. His eyes bore into the slave, an unwavering hard stare, while the slave keeps his own shut tightly.

“So weak,” Wang Yibo murmurs. “Why don’t you beg me to put you out of your misery?”

Standing to the side, Yu-ma wrings her hands anxiously. When the young master first arrived home with Yatou, she had been too shocked to think properly. Now, after one week of seeing Yatou suffer through the withdrawal and Wang Yibo’s cold insistence upon it, she does not know what to think.

She knows how much the young master says he hates Yatou now. She knows how they had been before. She does not know how much he remembers of the past or even if it’s better or worse to remember.

“Young Master,” she tries again.

Wang Yibo stands and tidies his clothing. “Wash him and bring him to my study,” he orders. “The doctor is here.”

The first scheduled checkup is not until one week later. When the doctor receives a call from Lord Wang’s attendant, he truly wishes he could find an excuse to say no. Cutting off the slave’s drug supply so cleanly is very effective, but also so dangerous. He had already warned Wang Yibo about it, describing all of the possible consequences, but the lord had insisted upon it, waving all his warnings away with an air of aloofness.

A sense of dread fills the doctor’s gut as he steps into the Wang mansion. He has a feeling that he would have to repeat the warnings this time and then try his best to keep the slave from dying.

As expected, the results of the checkup say that the slave is not doing very well. After the slave is led away again, Wang Yibo demands (wordlessly, but with his eyes) for an explanation.

The doctor clears his throat nervously. “Sir, ah, Lord Wang, with all due respect, I really don’t understand…” He trails off when Wang Yibo directs his gaze at him.

A pregnant pause ensues.

“Continue,” Wang Yibo orders as if confused and annoyed that he’d stopped mid-sentence.

“Yes, yes.” The doctor clears his throat again. “I really don’t understand your insistence upon the slave’s treatment. In no way is it better to make him get over his addiction to the various drugs. It’s dangerous, as you can see from how his health is failing already, and frankly, the drugs are all designed to help _you._ They help make the slaves more manageable, so I really don’t under—”

“I will do what I want with my slave,” Wang Yibo says. “And you will accomplish what is written in the contract that you signed.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the doctor agrees quickly.

Another pregnant pause.

“I-I will take my leave now, Lord Wang. Please let me know if you need me again before the scheduled checkup.”

Wang Yibo nods. The doctor forces himself to walk calmly out of the study. When the attendant shuts the heavy wooden door for him, he heaves a sigh.

There is something about Wang Yibo’s voice—his entire aura, honestly—that unnerves someone. He rarely raises his voice or lets any emotion through, and it is the calmness that is the most terrifying. You would never know just how close he is to exploding, but you would never want to reach that point. After all, the people in town all whisper that he was the one who killed his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yatou (丫头) means "girl"
> 
> thank you for reading


	4. four.

Yibo invites the boy to his father’s study and the boy follows him obediently. This room is where his father does business, but he usually is not home. It has an entire wall of bookshelves that reach to the ceiling and it’s one of Yibo’s favorite places to play in.

Yu-ma always chides him for being mischievous, but he loves climbing up the rickety ladder and getting a book from the uppermost, dustiest shelf. Some of them are full of big words and too hard to read. It’s mostly the climbing part that he loves. Of course, flipping through the yellowed pages and looking at the illustrations if the book has any is fun too.

Now that the boy is following him around, there can be more things to do in the study. But worried that the boy is too shy to play (he won’t even talk), Yibo decides to start with something quieter.

He pulls the boy to the place that he likes to sit on the ground. Yu-ma has cushions prepared there just for him. Then he pulls a book out of the shelf and sits beside the boy.

“This is my favorite story,” he explains, showing the cover to the boy. The cover has the silhouette of a bird. That’s the only reason why this is his favorite book; he hasn’t actually read the contents yet.

The boy looks at the book and nods slowly. He’s been nodding a lot at Yibo’s words now.

Getting comfortable on the cushion, Yibo opens the book to a random page. He pushes it towards the boy. “Can you read?” he asks.

Suddenly, the boy tenses. He looks up at Yibo timidly, biting his lip.

Yibo waits for the nod, but it does not come. “So… you can’t?” he guesses.

The boy nods slowly.

“You can’t write either, right?”

Without waiting for the boy’s confirmation, Yibo springs from the cushion and runs to his father’s work table. He slips a piece of white paper out of the pile and grabs a pen before hurrying back.

“I’ll teach you!” he exclaims enthusiastically, eyes shining. “Then we can talk to each other!”

The boy does not really react—just staring at him with wide eyes. But since he does not frown or bite his lip, Yibo takes it as a yes.

As a six-year-old, Yibo has not learned much yet, but as the heir of an old, powerful family with expensive tutors, he can at least teach an illiterate boy the basics. Sprawling over the paper on the ground, he scribbles on the alphabet.

“Let’s start with the ABCs!” He can barely hold in his excitement.

The boy learns quickly. To be honest, Yibo can’t be sure just how well he is learning, but he can see the boy’s lips mouthing each letter that they go through. And that’s enough motivation for the newbie teacher.

Time passes quickly. Finally, Yibo decides that the boy has passed the test for memorizing the alphabet. In the remaining blank space on the paper, he writes down four letters.

“That’s my name,” he explains. Pointing at each letter, he sounds them out. “Yibo.”

Still sprawled on the ground, he cranes his neck to look up at the boy, just in time to see him mouth the two syllables. He pulls himself up immediately. Sitting straight, he pushes the pen into the boy’s hands.

The boy looks over at him in surprise. The wide eyes are back again.

“What’s your name?” Yibo asks for the nth time today. But this time, he is more confident in getting an answer.

Hearing the question, the boy turns to the paper. He frowns in concentration as his eyes go over every letter. Yibo watches his every move in anticipation.

Finally, the boy takes the pen and points at one letter. He slowly drags it to another letter, and then another.

“That’s it?” Yibo asks, cocking his head.

The boy hands the pen back to him and nods.

Yibo looks at the three letters that the boy pointed out. “…Zan?” he sounds out uncertainly.

He looks to the boy for confirmation and gets a nod.

Yibo makes a face. “How about… Zanzan?”

This time, he gets a small smile.

_Zanzan, what’s your favorite color?_

_Zanzan, let’s play tic-tac-toe._

_Zanzan, do you know how to play hide and seek?_

_Zanzan, do you like birds?_

Yibo includes “Zanzan” in practically every sentence he utters as if he wants to make up for the time spent without knowing the name. Yu-ma calls the boy “Yatou” and he doesn’t know what his father calls the boy, but he does not allow anyone else to use this name. He’s the one who figured it out; he’s a possessive little boy.

Yu-ma does not mind. When Yibo tells her seriously that she can only call the boy by “Yatou,” she smiles, eyes disappearing into the creases. She’s happy with this development.

They fall into a happy pattern of sorts.

During the day, Zanzan is always with Yibo, quietly following behind him. He sits in a corner of the room during Yibo’s lessons and is quick to go to Yibo’s side as soon as the tutor leaves. They play games—as many games as possible without leaving the vicinity of the Wang mansion. And there are indeed many games to play. Finally having a playmate, all of Yibo’s past ideas or fantasies spill out of his mind and Zanzan never refuses his requests.

Gradually, Zanzan grows more comfortable at the dining table too. He still waits for Yibo to eat first before moving, but he no longer hesitates before getting another serving. Yu-ma gushes every day over how much prettier Zanzan is, now that he has some meat on his bones and color to his cheeks. Yibo agrees that his eyes and smile are really sparkly.

At night, they would read bedtime stories together, Yibo snuggled in his bed and Zanzan sitting to the side. Sometimes, Yu-ma would tell the boys a story. Sometimes, they would read the same book silently. Most of the time, Yibo would hold a book out and pretend to read, making up his own story for Zanzan, until he fell asleep. Then, Yu-ma would lead Zanzan back to his own room.

But when Yibo’s father is home, Zanzan does not belong to Yibo anymore.

Yibo has no clue what Zanzan does in his father’s room on those nights. He doesn’t know how to ask and Yu-ma doesn’t seem to know either. And of course, Zanzan would never tell him.

On those nights, he sleeps alone, trying to ignore the monsters hiding under his bed or the ghosts moaning somewhere in the mansion. The mornings after, it takes time (some days longer, other days shorter) for Zanzan to go back to normal.

For Yibo, “normal” means that Zanzan will look at him and have a shine in his eyes.

The first time that Yibo hears the boy’s voice is almost three months after Zanzan was brought to the Wang mansion. It isn’t any special day.

On that day, he climbs to reach the top shelf as usual. Zanzan holds the rickety ladder on the bottom, keeping it steady. Yibo chooses a random book with leather binding and words written in rusted gold ink.

After he comes back down, they settle into their cushions. Flipping through the book, their noses fill with dust and the scent unique to aged, yellowing papers. When the fun from that dies down (there are no illustrations in this book), Yibo pushes it to the side and the two choose books that they would actually read.

It may seem odd that someone as energetic and lively as six-year-old Yibo would love reading so much. Actually, his father has made it clear many times before that he hates the messes Yibo causes. Hates him trekking mud into the house, hates him scampering around, hates him laughing too loudly. So, while he still has the urge to be free and do all that, he’s nurtured a habit for quiet activities as well. Solidary activities so he can entertain himself even when he has to stay in his room alone.

They sit in their usual spots in the library, reading. The afternoon sun shines through the curtains, washing the study in a warm gold. Winter is ending and spring is coming soon.

“…Bo…”

The whisper is like the breeze rustling through leaves. Yibo’s head snaps up and gapes at Zanzan.

The other boy blinks at him, almost shyly.

“Zanzan, you can talk?!” Yibo exclaims (quietly, because Zanzan is like an otherworldly creature that might be frightened away). Forgetting the book on his lap, Yibo gets onto his knees so he can turn and face Zanzan directly. “You can talk?” he asks again.

Pink colors Zanzan’s still-pallid cheeks. “Yibo…”

Yibo does not spring up immediately and run to tell Yu-ma that no, her Yatou is not a mute. Just like with the name Zanzan, he wants to keep it a secret. His secret.

He nudges Zanzan, poking his arm, and asks him to say something else. Finally hearing his new friend’s voice is so much more fun and interesting than any other game he could play.

Hearing his voice, though a bit clogged from disuse and doesn’t yet rise above a whisper, feels like the biggest achievement for Yibo. He doesn’t know why the boy suddenly decided to speak nor does he ask for a reason. It just seems to be a natural development.

“Can you say your own name?” Yibo suddenly asks.

Zanzan tilts his head to the side as if he never expected this question.

“Please?” Yibo remembers to add politely.

But despite everything, the name does not come. After some hesitation, Zanzan lowers his head. Yibo pouts, but he still says, “Zanzan, it’s okay.” He takes the other boy’s hands, swinging them mindlessly.

There is a world inside Zanzan’s mind, a harbor and refuge where he is safe and alone. It is a wonderland that he built for himself, bit by bit throughout the years. Every time he does not want to be in the real world anymore, he visits this little place. Every time he visits, he adds a tiny bit more. In this world, there are soft cushions, warm dirt and comfort. In this world, there are so many more colors and sounds. There is music and he can sing to the flowers, sing with the birds.

He comes here every so often, more and more often now, and loses himself here. He can just exist in this world of bright colors, in peace. Once he goes into this world, no one can ever pull him out forcefully. Sometimes, he loses himself here. Sometimes, more and more now, he feels that he can lose himself here forever and never leave.

Yibo climbs onto the high walls of this world. He sits at the top, brushing the dirt off of his hands and looks down with a bright smile. The warmth that he exudes almost rivals the sunshine in this world. He brings so many different things—things of wonderment and boyish delight, things that he has never imagined could exist.

 _Zanzan, come out and play_ , he calls.

And so he does.

~ ~ ~

Nightmares plague the slave’s mind, though he really does not know when he is awake or in a haze, cannot differentiate between past memories and the present day.

How much longer will this last?

His fingers are still scabbed, but the nails have started to grow back and the ugly discolored patches have started to fade. He is washed down every day with the harsh jet of water and the vomit and blood and feces seem to not be imbued in his skin anymore. He has not seen himself yet, but perhaps he is starting to look more like a human being.

But he knows how people describe him—spoken leeringly, mockingly, drunkenly, lustfully. He is like a doll, like a pretty little pet, like a fucktoy, a wretched being. So, looking more human does not really mean much.

Every day, Yu-ma murmurs to him, _Yatou, everything will be okay,_ but how much longer will he be curled up on this floor, shaking and foaming at the mouth like a chimpanzee going insane at the zoo?

Like now.

The master rests casually against the white wall and watches the slave with bored amusement.

“The doctor said that you’ll get over it soon.”

His voice cuts through the slave’s manic hysteria. It is the first time he has said something so conversational and it is terrifying. His words always have that effect.

“But this week will be the worst,” Wang Yibo continues. “You might die, or you might get through it. It depends on how strong you are.” Pausing, he cocks his head as if considering something. He scoffs, almost at himself for whatever just ran past his mind. “I know you aren’t strong,” he says. “You are weak, have always been weak.”

All feeling evaporates from within the slave. Even the disgust, even the intense urge to claw at his skin until it falls off, even the need burning in his gut flattens into a pool of cold, dead water.

“Do you want me to put you out of your misery?”

But his mind races. He frantically tries to find the way back to that world within him, but when he arrives, out of breath, he is met with only the dilapidated ruins. He tries to hide under one of the crumbling walls, but a hand snatches him and drags him out mercilessly.

“If you want me to fuck you, just beg me,” Wang Yibo says, lips pulled across his teeth in a thin smile. “Let me hear your voice again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (let's pretend that they write using the latin alphabet lol)  
> thank you for reading


	5. five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short chapter

Lord Wang does not allow his son off the property. Thankfully, the Wang mansion and connected land is large enough for adventures to be had every day.

When winter melts into spring, Yibo leads Zanzan to the garden. The wooden gate is too hard to push open, so Yibo teaches Zanzan how to crawl in through a hole in the fence.

The many attendants and servants who work in the mansion seem to overlook this fenced off patch of land. Untended to, weeds grow tall among the flowers; vines and moss crawl over the overturned stone statues.

But rather than looking dilapidated, the garden gives off an air of peace and remembrance. It is like an aged picture, the colors faded through time but still there. The soft grayness is dotted with dark greens, light pinks and yellows. With the coming of spring, the flowers continue to bloom, regardless of whether people come to see their beauty or not. They bloom for themselves, for the other souls in the garden.

Yibo straightens up. Zanzan follows suit and helps brush the dirt off of the younger boy’s pants.

“This is Mama’s garden,” Yibo explains. “Lemme show you the coolest place.”

Without waiting for a reply (because nine times out of ten, there isn’t one), Yibo grabs Zanzan’s hand and runs to the fountain in the center of the garden.

Water has not come out of the fountain in a long while, but fresh rain has collected in the bottom. A few birds have flown over, perched on the edge of the stone, pecking at the water and chirping to each other.

“Mama said before that if you throw a coin into the fountain, you can make a wish and it’ll come true,” Yibo says. “I took some from Yu-ma. Do you wanna try?”

He looks over expectantly and Zanzan nods earnestly. He has not left these grounds since he came to the mansion, but Yibo has opened up a whole new world for him. He can’t figure out why throwing a coin into a fountain would make wishes come true, but he believes Yibo.

The younger boy pulls two copper coins out of his pocket and hands one to Zanzan. He clutches the other one and turns to face the fountain. Zanzan watches as Yibo closes his eyes and mouths something. His wish seems to be very, very long.

A while later, Yibo opens his eyes and throws the coin into the fountain. It cuts a small arc in the air and lands in the rainwater with a plop. The birds perched on the edge fly away and they all disappear before the ripples fade from the water.

Looking proud of himself, Yibo glances at Zanzan. “I can’t tell you what I wished for,” he says, even though Zanzan definitely did not ask. “Wishes don’t come true if you say it out loud.”

Zanzan nods.

“Your turn!”

But when Yibo pushes Zanzan forward to the fountain, he stares at the stone piece in the center, feeling the coin clutched in his palm, and his mind is blank. A wish? What can he wish for?

He glances at Yibo for help.

“You don’t have a wish?” Even though Zanzan has started speaking a little, he still does not do so often, and Yibo has learned to anticipate his words.

Zanzan nods, brows creasing a bit.

“You can keep the coin,” Yibo decides. “And when you think of a wish, we can come here again!”

Zanzan nods again, with a bigger smile this time. His clothing does not have any pockets, so he continues clutching the coin. The copper grows warm in his grip as if it will meld into him.

With that part done, the two boys begin exploring the verdure of the garden. Yibo flips over a log, revealing a swarm of ants and other insects.

“Zanzan, so many bugs,” he cries. He continues crying about how disgusting and scary the bugs are, all the while poking at them with a twig and getting close enough for his nose to touch them.

“Yibo…”

He suddenly hears the soft voice, paired with a tug on his sleeve. Zanzan pulls him to the side where there is a pile of leaves. He crouches down and motions for Yibo to look.

When Yibo does so, he sees a tiny bird laying in fallen leaves. There is something wrong with it—it looks folded and bent into an irregular shape—but he can’t really place it. A broken wing? A broken leg?

He pokes the little thing with his twig from before, but Zanzan stops him.

“Hurts,” he whispers.

Yibo quickly drops the twig. He squats there, resting his chin on his knees and stares at the poor bird. “What should we do?” he wonders out loud.

Zanzan kneels onto the ground and gently scoops the bird into his hands. One of the bird’s wings flutters a bit, but it doesn’t struggle in his hold. He looks at the other boy.

“Come on,” Yibo says. He stands up, suddenly confident and sure of himself again. “Let’s go back. I’m sure Yu-ma will know what to do.”

It doesn’t happen often, but it’s not the first time that Yibo brings a creature into the mansion. But seeing the way Zanzan holds the bird and how Yibo hovers around him, she is sure whose idea it was this time.

Yu-ma tsks. “This poor thing has a broken wing. It must’ve fallen out of its nest.” She wraps the bird with a warm towel and sets it down.

“Yu-ma, what should we do now?” Yibo asks, genuinely worried.

“We can only give it food and water and make it comfortable until it heals by itself.”

Yibo pats Zanzan’s hand and the boy finally tears his gaze away from the lump inside the towel. “Don’t worry,” Yibo assures. “Yu-ma is really good at this.”

And indeed, she is. She has always been a comforting presence, good at nursing small creatures back to health.

Zanzan nods, grasping the copper coin tightly.

~ ~ ~

Yu-ma has always been good at nursing broken creatures back to life.

The slave makes it through the week, somehow. When the doctor comes for the checkup, he is ecstatic to find that all the numbers are growing more positive. It feels like a lion that has been breathing over his shoulder finally stalks away to terrorize another prey. He has never cared so much about the wellbeing of a slave, but now, he is genuinely happy to see that the slave is much, much healthier.

Under Lord Wang’s orders, the doctor drafts up a diet plan to continue caring for the slave and gives it to the old maid with detailed instructions.

Yu-ma removes the chains on the slave and unclasps the collar around his neck as well. Then she helps him into new clothing. Dressed in the simple white nightgown and without any physical restraints, he does not look like a slave anymore. Rather, with his pallor and features, he looks more like the sickly heir to a noble family.

But even without the restraints, he will not even think about escaping. Of course.

The slave follows Yu-ma out of the sterile white bathroom. They walk down a long corridor, going the opposite direction of the study. The slave’s bare feet pad softly against the wooden floor. Coldness spreads up from his soles.

They pass by a window. The slave does not raise his head, but he sees the change in light. He lost all sense of time in the sterile room, but it must still be winter. The light is cold and weak, but it still casts sunspots on the wood, dancing over his feet.

The path they take is familiar to the slave. Despite the memories being locked away, he watches as his feet tread to the dining room. His body has never been his, always moving on their own accord.

Yu-ma pushes open the wooden door and the slave follows her in.

The furnishing in this mansion has not changed at all throughout the years. The dining room is still as elegant as before, with a long marble table and stiff high-backed chairs. After all these years, it still seems as if there is no life in this room.

As she pulls a chair back, Yu-ma says softly, “Yatou, sit.”

The slave’s mind is unwilling, but he moves obediently, lowering himself into the seat. A servant comes in with a tray of soup and bread. That has been his diet for the past however many days—healthy and balanced meals but with small enough servings for easier digestion, as instructed by the doctor.

“Yatou, please eat,” the old maid urges from the side.

Seeing the tray on the marble table, a sticky sweetness suddenly rises up the slave’s throat. He swallows hard, but, like acrid bile, the taste refuses to go away. Under Yu-ma’s warm gaze, the slave shudders inwardly and slowly picks up the silver spoon.

The dining room door is thrown open and the young lord stalks in.

The spoon plops into the soup.

Thick liquid splashes onto the tray and the slave’s hand. It burns. He quickly pulls his hands back, hiding them under the table, on his lap, and lowers his head.

“Young Master,” Yu-ma greets. “Would you like breakfast?”

But Wang Yibo is in no mood for pleasantries. Glowering, he demands, “Did I allow you to bring him here?”

The old woman glances at the slave before looking back at Wang Yibo. “Young Master, the doctor said that he must eat—”

“Then you can feed him in his room,” Wang Yibo interrupts. “He can eat in his own bed, comfortably like a pampered pet.”

His voice, usually so flat and emotionless, drips with disgust and malice. Even Yu-ma does not dare to try and change his mind.

“Yes, Young Master,” she acquiesces.

Wang Yibo stares hard at the slave for a few heartbeats. Without saying anything, he spins on his heels and leaves the room. “Do not let him appear before me,” he orders, pausing at the door. “Unless I want him.”

Wang Yibo does not detest the banquets nor the old men that he must deal with. He does not harbor any of such intense feelings toward them or anything else. They are mere inconveniences, scum that he does not even deem worthy of stepping on and dirtying his boot.

But he does hate the slave.

_Xiao Zhan._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading~


	6. six.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: implied pedophilia and rape

Wang Yibo does not care for the old lords who he must prove his worth to at banquets. He also does not care for the young nobles who throw opulent parties to show off their own worth. But he appears anyway, exuding the cold aura that keeps all the guests away from him, other than for the perfunctory polite pleasantries.

He is leaning against a wall near the back of the room, swirling a glass of red wine in boredom, when another young noble approaches him. Wang Yibo lifts his eyes but does not uncross his arms or straighten from the wall.

“I heard you bought a slave from Lord Pi,” the young man begins. The words and topic are conversational enough, as is his smile.

Wang Yibo smiles as well. “You do pay attention to me more than I thought.”

A string quartet plays in the background. The piece is a somber one, bows pulled painstakingly over the strings. If one listens carefully, the melancholic undercurrent is a bit unnerving in the bright and jovial room, chandelier lights sparkling and dancing on expensive gems. Fortunately, the guests at this party are not here to appreciate the music.

“This piece is Gorecki’s Symphony No. 3,” the young man breaks the lull in conversation.

Wang Yibo has no interest, nor does he feign interest. He continues swirling his glass of wine and stares at it, almost enchanted by the small red vortex.

“Do you like it?” The man knows that Wang Yibo will not answer, but he pauses for an effect. Then, “It’s a dark, depressing story. About broken families, murdered sons, war, death, the like.”

Wang Yibo finally looks away from the bloody liquid. He sighs as if tired of humoring a child. “Qiu Yan, what do you want?”

“It is Xiao Zhan.” It’s not a question. The conversational lilt is gone; the man’s tone has gone flat, but Wang Yibo’s lips remained quirked.

“Yes.”

“Let me see him.”

Wang Yibo laughs the kind that is more pushing air out of one’s nose in disdain than a sound of merriment. He empties his glass of wine and sets it down on the cocktail table beside him.

“Wang Yibo!”

“Qiu Yan,” Wang Yibo states calmly.

In all of his exchanges, the more frustrated and distraught the other party is, the calmer Wang Yibo becomes. He leans back against the wall and studies the other man. His smile becomes more relaxed with schadenfreude delight. Maybe, as children, Qiu Yan had been the more mature one, knowing how to rescue his friend when Wang Yibo just stood dumbly in place. But now, Wang Yibo has learned the rules of the game while Young Master Qiu is just a delicate flower nurtured in a garden—still too young to have much experience in the adult conversations of their world—and he wears his emotions freely on his face.

“I want to see him.”

“Who do you think you are?”

“Who do you think _you_ are?” Qiu Yan growls. “You can’t—”

Wang Yibo cuts him off with a wave. “I _can._ He was sold to the Wang family as a child. He escaped and now, I’ve recaptured him. I can do whatever I want to my own _property_. The Wang family’s matters are none of your business.” He pauses as if remembering something and chuckles softly. “Unless, of course, you wish to change your surname again.”

Qiu Yan bristles at the last remark and he tugs at his tie in exasperation. “Xiao Zhan has always had a misfortunate life.” Glaring at Wang Yibo with smoldering eyes, he grits out, “His biggest misfortune is meeting you.”

“Well said.” Wang Yibo pours out red wine for Qiu Yan and himself. Picking up the crystal, he clinks it against the other one. He smiles and raises the glass towards the man who is still glaring at him. “Cheers.”

Indeed.

But if Xiao Zhan’s biggest misfortune in life is meeting Wang Yibo, then it is a tasteless joke from the gods who had long abandoned him for him to meet Wang Yibo a second time.

~ ~ ~

Yibo knows that his father often has to go to some kind of dinners. He doesn’t know what they are about, but Yu-ma tells him that they’re work dinners. Important dinners.

It does not really matter to him though. His father is barely ever home and Yibo rather likes it this way.

But sometimes, his father takes Zanzan with him to these dinners. On those nights, Zanzan sheds his white nightgown and Yu-ma helps him into a silk shirt, fitted pants, and a band around his neck. He still looks very pretty, Yibo always thinks.

Zanzan never tells him what he does at the dinners and Yibo never asks.

Once though, Yibo does ask if they’re fun. Zanzan thinks for a moment before shaking his head. He doesn’t always answer questions, but he never lies to Yibo. He takes the younger boy’s hand and says softly, “I like being here more.”

For someone who rarely speaks, Zanzan has a special way with words that can always soothe the young master.

But tonight, Lord Wang orders his son to change into something presentable. Yu-ma tells him that it’s the birthday party of another young master. Yibo is expected to go and give his blessings.

Yibo has no clue who this Young Master Qiu is, but it’s a chance to get out of this mansion.

When Yu-ma tries to lead him to his wardrobe, Yibo clutches Zanzan’s hand and swings it. “Can Zanzan go too?”

Yu-ma sighs and shakes her head—not in answer to his question but with the tired amusement of the young master’s antics. “Yes, Master has also ordered me to help Yatou dress for the occasion.”

The biggest grin blooms on Yibo’s small face, pushing his cheeks up high. Swinging Zanzan’s arm even more enthusiastically, he exclaims, “We’re going to have so much fun tonight!”

The smile on Zanzan’s face is much smaller, but it matches Yibo’s in brightness.

Zanzan is like a completely different person when he is before Lord Wang. Or rather, he is the same as he has always been. It is Yibo who teases the other side of him out, bit by bit.

And to be honest, Yibo is a whole other person before Lord Wang as well. Faced with his father, he becomes an obedient and demure boy too. He sits in the very back of the car quietly with Yu-ma.

Zanzan sits beside Lord Wang. Throughout the entire ride, Yibo stares as the setting sun alternatively casts the back of Zanzan’s head in golden light and shadows. It is not winter anymore and even spring is about to end. The days are getting longer and darkness comes a bit later.

The Qiu mansion is entirely unlike the Wang mansion. In fact, it can’t even be called a mansion. Instead, it is a quaint little cottage as if it was taken out of a storybook. A cobblestone path, lined with blooming flowers, leads to the entrance.

Yibo wonders what kind of people live here. Would they be like the characters in stories too? But which stories—the evil witch in disguise or the jolly old dwarves?

When they arrive at the end of the cobblestone path, an attendant bows deeply. “Welcome, Lord Wang, Young Master Wang,” he greets and opens the door.

The inside of the cottage is much bigger than it seems from the outside. The furnishing and decorations exude the aura unique to families of old wealth and cultured heritage. But of course, Yibo does not notice or care.

The attendant leads them to the banquet hall. Without a word, Lord Wang goes over to the head of the Qiu house with Zanzan in tow. Yibo is left alone with his caretaker.

He looks to her for help, unsure of what to do in this foreign place. Yu-ma can only bring him to where the other children are.

At home, Yibo is an active—almost chaotic—boy, dragging Zanzan along for all sorts of adventures, but anyone else who meets him always thinks he is shy and untalkative. This birthday party is no exception. He mumbles a “Happy Birthday” to Young Master Qiu Yan, the star of the night, and quickly scampers back to Yu-ma’s side.

The other children chat and play around. Bored and uncomfortable in his formal suit and bowtie, Yibo tugs at Yu-ma’s sleeve. “Where’s Zanzan?” he whines in a hushed whisper. “I wanna play with him.”

When his father told Yibo that he could attend tonight’s dinner, this was not how he’d imagined things. He thought he would be able to explore a new place with Zanzan, have more fun with him. Instead, Zanzan is in another room, probably sitting demurely next to his father, while he is sitting here, watching the other kids and getting annoyed.

“Young Master, this is the room for the children,” Yu-ma explains patiently. “It is not fitting for Yatou to be here.”

Yibo knows this too, but he crosses his arms over his chest petulantly. “Zanzan is only a few years older than me.” He does not actually know Zanzan’s age—not even the boy himself knows—but it does not matter. “He’s not an adult.”

Yu-ma pats his hand. “He is your father’s companion today.”

Her tone is final and Yibo understands that no amount of whining, complaining or reasoning would change the situation tonight. He leans back in his chair and crumples up into a ball inside the folds of his new suit.

The next time he sees Zanzan, it is already at the end of the night.

An attendant comes in to usher the children out. The lords and their companions are still in the main ballroom, milling about and conversating. Yibo immediately searches for Zanzan. He sees his father in the corner of his vision, but there is no sign of the boy beside him. Instead, there is a girl in a purple silk dress, clinging to his arm. They share a glass of wine.

Ignoring Yu-ma’s calls behind him, Yibo pushes into the crowd. All of the men and boys and girls blur into a faceless mass before him. Urgency rises within his gut.

_Zanzan, where are you?_

Breaking free from the faceless masses again, Yibo’s feet take him down the nearest corridor. Yu-ma runs after him, but her calls fall to deaf ears. The soles of his leather shoes tap against the wooden floor, echoing. He turns the corner.

Screeches to a halt.

Further down, at the very end of the corridor, is a man and a boy. The boy is barely visible, blocked by the man’s heavyset stature. But from between the man’s legs, he can see that the boy is on his knees. Yibo knows who that is.

Long, ivory fingers scrabble at the wooden floor, trying to find some kind of support. Moments later, the hands fly up as if by instinctive reflex, but they still shy away from the man.

The man grunts. He grabs the boy’s wrists, both of them in one hand, and thrusts himself forward. The boy is pushed up against the wall. His thighs tremble, but there is nowhere else to go now.

Yibo doesn’t know what is happening, but his dinner rises up from his stomach. He swallows hard. It hurts as if _he_ is the one having something shoved down his throat.

He opens his mouth, but he has no clue what to say. He ends up looking like a fish with slack jaws.

There are hurried steps and someone arrives behind him. It is not Yu-ma.

“Uncle Zhou?”

The youthful voice snaps Yibo out of his daze. He turns quickly and presses himself against the wall, suddenly not sure if he is even allowed to be here, to see this scene. It doesn’t seem to matter though. The newcomer steps past him, walking directly to the man.

At the other end of the corridor, the man looks back. Seeing the boy, he smiles. Light glints from his metal teeth. “Ah, the birthday boy,” he exclaims with a hearty chuckle. 

He turns around fully and straightens his clothing. His collar is still rumpled and his belt is loose, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Behind him, the boy on his knees falls back against the wall. The man doesn’t seem to notice that either.

“Little Yan,” the man calls, clapping as he walks towards the other boy. “You’ve grown up so well.”

“Thank you, Uncle Zhou,” Qiu Yan says politely. He peers behind the man to the boy on the ground.

“Did the servants give you my gift?”

“Yes,” Qiu Yan replies by habit. With all the gifts he received tonight, there is no way he even remembers who gave him what. “I really love it.”

“Great, great. I knew you would. Twelve years old, right?”

Qiu Yan nods.

“What a big boy.” Zhou Shabi claps Qiu Yan on the back. “I’ll be off now. There are still some matters to discuss with your father.”

Qiu Yan follows Zhou Shabi with his eyes. As soon as the man disappears around the corner, Qiu Yan runs to the boy on the ground.

“…Zhan?” he cries as he squats down and grabs the boy’s hands. “Xiao Zhan, is it really you?”

The intense emotions in his voice do not seem to match his age, but at the same time, there is a tender innocence to him. The same feelings are written in the other boy’s face as he stares up with wide eyes.

“Xiao Zhan, Xiao Zhan,” Qiu Yan repeats as if saying the name, feeling the syllables roll off his tongue, will ensure that this is all not a dream. “It’s me—”

“Didi,” comes a soft whisper from the boy’s lips.

(Yibo notices that his lips are swollen and so, so red.)

Qiu Yan nods fiercely. “I can’t believe… I-I thought… You…”

Whatever he wants to say gets lost in emotion, but Xiao Zhan seems to understand. “How are you?” he asks softly.

“They adopted me as their son.” Genuine happiness is apparent in Qiu Yan’s voice. “They’re nice. They gave me a name, and everything else.”

There is so much more that he wants to say. A question sits right at the edge of his tongue. He hesitates and takes a deep breath, but before he can say anything, Xiao Zhan raises a hand to the younger boy’s cheek. “Happy birthday,” he murmurs with a smile.

Yibo hears the shuffled footsteps of Yu-ma. He turns and flees.

Back at the Wang mansion, it is like every other night, with the two boys inside one room. One sits on the chair beside the bed. The other is supposed to be nestled inside the covers, but tonight, he sits up against the headboard, pillows propped up around him.

“That Young Master Qiu, you know him?” Yibo asks suddenly. He stares at the other boy with a fervent gaze.

Zanzan closes his eyes momentarily. The long lashes flutter against his cheeks; his thin eyelids tremble. “He was sold before me,” he whispers. “I thought he’d died.”

“He called you Xiao Zhan.”

The older boy nods, still not looking at Yibo.

“That’s your name? Your real name?”

He casts his eyes downward and his hands fidget on his lap. “That’s what they called me.”

Yibo doesn’t ask who “they” are, because _that_ isn’t the point. He doesn’t know what his father calls the boy (or if he calls him anything at all), but he knows that Yu-ma has never been able to get a word out of him. In the entire mansion, Yibo is the only one who has a name to call the boy.

It is defeating to know that other people knew the true name—a surname and a name—of the boy. That other people had this boy before him.

Yibo frowns, his bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Then… what about Zanzan?”

After a lull, the boy peers up through his lashes. “That’s what you call me,” he answers. His voice is soft but earnest, as is his gaze.

“Only me,” Yibo says, tentative and authoritative.

“Only you,” Zanzan agrees.

He never lies, but for someone who rarely speaks, he has a way with words that can always soothe the young master. Or perhaps, he knows Yibo too well, knows just what he wants to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *qiu yan was supposed to be xia zhiguang, but i decided to use all OCs  
> *yibo is a tad possessive heh
> 
> thank you for reading


	7. seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: pedophilia, child rape, blood, gore

After they bring that bird back, Yu-ma finds a little cage to put it in. Yibo and Zanzan spend their days bringing the bird water and grains for it to peck at. Gradually, the bird’s wing heals.

Yibo hangs the cage near the window in the study. Zanzan seems to love the bird a lot. Whenever they go to the study to read now, he would go see the bird instead. He never says much or plays with the bird—he just sits on the side, resting his chin on his knees, and watches the bird perch on the beam inside the cage or hop around.

“Do you want me to put the bird in your room?” Yibo asks, but Zanzan just shakes his head.

Yibo goes over to the other boy’s side and mimics his posture, watching the bird with Zanzan. The bird flutters its wings, hovering in the air for a moment before dropping back down on the bottom of the cage.

“Aren’t birds supposed to sing?” Yibo wonders out loud, poking the cage a little. The bird flutters away from his finger to the other side. “Why is this one so quiet?”

He peers to the side. “It’s like you,” he says, nudging Zanzan.

The other boy looks at him and gives a small smile before turning back to the bird in the cage. “Yes,” he agrees.

Yibo and Zanzan fall into a comfortable silence as they each think about whatever. They don’t hear it when Lord Wang returns to the mansion and pushes open the study’s door.

“Father!” Yibo springs up and bows slightly.

Zanzan gets up too, putting distance between him and the other boy, and lowers his head.

“You two seem to be having fun,” Lord Wang says.

“Y-yes, Father,” Yibo starts. “The bird was hurt, so we—”

“Wang Yibo, this room is where I do business in.” Lord Wang is a man of short stature, but there is just something about him that commands respect and obedience.

“Yes, Father!”

Yibo reaches over to grab the bird cage and flee the room.

“Leave it here.”

“O-oh.” Yibo looks at his father with his large eyes. “Yes, Father,” he mumbles. He gives Zanzan’s sleeve a quick tug before walking quickly towards the door.

“And you, stay.”

Yibo’s head shoots up to see his father going over to Zanzan. He frowns, but there isn’t much he can do except leave the study alone and go find Yu-ma.

~ ~ ~

Sitting in the parlor, Xiao Zhan looks down at the birdcage that an attendant had just given him. The mockingbird inside looks back at him.

After his father died, Wang Yibo dismissed all of the servants and attendants, save for Yu-ma, and hired new ones to his liking. They’re efficient, quiet, and barely have a presence. But they’re still humans with mouths and gossip is inevitable.

Wang Yibo never hears them, of course. Xiao Zhan does, of course.

“Don’t you think Lord Wang is kind of crazy?” one servant asks as she dusts the table.

“Shush!” Another servant’s eyes dart towards Xiao Zhan, sitting beside the French window with the birdcage.

The first servant follows her eyes and chuckles, waving her concern off.

Just like with everyone else, they forget that he is a creature with ears. He is the topic of the conversation, but it is not about him. He exists in a glass cage for them to observe, a fixture in the background as they let their imaginations run wild.

“Why did Lord Wang even buy that slave?” the servant continues. “It’s been a month—”

“More than a month.”

“Yes, more than a month and Lord Wang hasn’t done anything to him!”

A third servant rests against her broom and joins the conversation, “I thought Lord Wang wanted him to heal? He was close to death when he first arrived.”

“But he’s more than healed now. Look at him!”

Three pairs of eyes are directed Xiao Zhan; Xiao Zhan continues looking at the mockingbird. The little bird hops around and lets out an imperceptible chirp.

“Maybe Lord Wang is in love with the slave,” one girl muses with an almost-dreamy smile. “He really panicked when the slave almost died from drug withdrawal.”

“That’s absurd!” One servant waves her duster authoritatively. “ _I_ heard that Lord Wang wouldn’t even let the slave in the dining room. Lord Wang is always scary, but I’ve never heard him sound that _angry_ before.”

“But Lord Wang made Zhuzi go through all that trouble to buy that bird for him!”

“And that is _exactly_ why I said that Lord Wang has gone mad these days,” the girl huffs and the other servants make noises of realization. 

“Ah, now that you mention it…”

“Do you want to know what I heard from Zhuzi?” the second servant asks, wiggling her brows. She motions for the others to get closer. Dropping her voice to a theatric whisper, she says, “I heard that the slave belonged to the old master. Then he escaped and the old master died from grief. Lord Wang has been trying to find the slave ever since then.”

“Really?” the others gasp.

“That would make sense. No wonder Lord Wang hates him so much.”

“But my brother told me that Lord Wang was the one who killed his father!” one whispers timidly.

Another adds, “Yeah, and why then would Lord Wang work so hard to heal the slave? I remember he called the doctor over for an emergency checkup at midnight!”

The servant with all the gossip tsks knowingly. “Obviously to keep him alive to torture him more.” She drags out the last word for a dramatic effect and the other girls all _ooh_ and _ahh._ One shudders and rubs her arms at the sudden chill.

They subconsciously look over to the window again. To be honest, the slave truly is the perfect image of a tragic beauty. All humans have primal urges within. When one sees something lovely, it is human nature to want to squeeze and crush it. When one sees something fragile, it is only natural to want to destroy it. Even for servant girls like them, seeing him clad in all white and basked in the weak winter sunlight, they have the impulse to ravage him and then hold the torn pieces tenderly in their palms.

Xiao Zhan, seemingly finally sensing the stares, looks up at them with eyes clear as water.

The door opens and all the servants flinch.

“Housekeeper Yu,” one girl calls out, her voice wavering.

The old woman shakes her head at them. “I could hear you all slacking off from the other end of the corridor.” After a pause, Yu-ma barks, “Get back to work!”

Bowing their heads, the servants mutter apologies and flee the room with their cleaning supplies. When only she and Xiao Zhan remain, Yu-ma softens again. Going to the window, she sits down beside the boy and watches the mockingbird as well.

She sighs. “Yatou…”

Xiao Zhan’s hand, reaching toward the birdcage, tenses ever-so-slightly before he lowers it back into his lap.

“Yatou,” Yu-ma repeats. Her voice is warm and almost pleading. “Don’t listen to what they say.”

The slave gives no reply, of course.

“Yatou, I am so happy that you are back. And the young master is as well. I know he is.” Yu-ma takes Xiao Zhan’s hands in her own callused palms. Her heart twinges at the scars on the once-flawless fingers. “He was always looking for you, but he never thought he could actually find you again. When he finally did, he… He didn’t know what to do or how to react. You can understand, right?”

Xiao Zhan does not look up at her.

“You must not know, but when you had those attacks from drug withdrawal, he was the only one who could hold you down. He held you so tightly, so you could hurt him but not yourself. Perhaps you thought it was humiliating to be kept in a bathroom, but it was the most suitable place for you in that state. And he stayed in there all day and night, guarding you. He checked all of the meals from brought over from the kitchen. He reported every detail to the doctor. He didn’t say anything, but he really was so worried.

“But the young master… He has changed so much,” Yu-ma says, almost to herself. She stands up and looks out the window. The reflection in the glass is much older than she remembers herself, but the mahogany furniture in the room has not seemed to have aged at all. The world stays the same, but people are pushed by the flow of time. One must adapt. Swim or drown.

“After you left, his father punished him.”

Xiao Zhan tenses.

“He was bed-ridden for almost an entire month. Then his father left him as well.” Yu-ma sighs and the glass before her fogs momentarily. “It must’ve done something to him, because even to this day, he still stays away from the old master’s bedchamber. But still, he’s changed. I don’t know when it all happened, but suddenly, my young master was Lord Wang and his entire temperament became different too. He will never tell anyone this, but I raised him. I know that he’s turned the way he is now because he thought he had to. He hates it too, but did he have a choice?”

She looks back at the boy on the ground who has not moved a muscle, his back to her. “Yatou, please understand him,” she implores. “He is in pain too.”

Xiao Zhan raises a pale hand and touches the metal bars of the cage. The mockingbird inside chirps.

~ ~ ~

For those looking in on the outside, it would be hard to say that Xiao Zhan’s childhood was bad. It wasn’t. Not exactly.

It could always have been worse.

Compared to his short years on the streets, he never again had to scavenge for scraps or risk getting beaten for sleeping under someone else’s shelter. He no longer had to worry about the sheriff or getting thrown into the prison dungeon like they always threatened to when they caught him stealing.

Compared to the children who toiled in the fields, he never had to do such backbreaking work under the sun. Compared to the children who worked in the orphanage, he never had to kneel and scrub the floors or dress in tatters dirtier than the rags they used.

The orphanage made sure that his skin remained the pallor that the nobles so loved. Nothing they did to him ever left behind visible scars. The only blemish they allowed for was the small black dot under his lip; they called it a beauty mark. He was raised to be a pretty, porcelain doll and he grew up to be just that.

No one knew his name or birthday; he didn’t either. The orphanage staff never called him by any sort of name. There were too many nameless children there. It would be impossible to remember. They preferred to call everyone by the pronoun “you.”

The name “Xiao Zhan” was given to him by the madame of the first family who bought him. She was looking for some company, someone to entertain her when her husband was not home and, according to what she often cried out during her screaming fits, fucking other women.

The madame loved Xiao Zhan at first. She clung to him, holding the precious little boy in her arms day and night. She bought him pretty dresses, dolled him up with red and rouge, and held the most exotic and expensive sweets to his lips.

But the orphanage had only taught him how to be obedient and let others do whatever they wanted to him. They never taught him how to read or write. They never taught him how to sing and dance. They never taught him how to entertain and pleasure his master or mistress.

In bed, when Madame Xiao ripped open the silky clothing she’d bought for him and ran her hands over his thin body, he could only lay there like a stillborn infant. No matter what she did to him, the child never made a sound. Even when she grabbed the dagger hidden under her pillow and carved messily into his thigh.

Blood dyed her white sheets like a modern splatter painting. Teardrops rolled out of the boy’s glassy eyes, down his porcelain cheeks, so, so prettily, but Mistress Xiao did not want him anymore. When she tossed him outside of the orphanage, the tears had run dry.

The blood had not.

The orphanage did not want him either. Who _would_ want him in this state? No noble would buy a secondhand slave. He had been returned for being unsatisfactory, thrown at the steps of their front door and bleeding to death. When they found him outside the door, his lips were a strange shade of blue and the hard ground under him was sticky with dark red. He had a permanent flaw on his thigh now and he was dying.

But his face was pretty enough that maybe—just _maybe_ —someone would still buy him for a high price. There was a VIP auction in a few weeks. If he could heal in time and be sold, then it would be worth it.

Even now, it is hard for one say if Xiao Zhan’s pretty face saved him or ruined him.

While confined to his bed, Xiao Zhan met another boy. He was in the sick room due to a fever, but his eyes were bright and he was so talkative. Every morning, Xiao Zhan would wake up to his chatter; every night, he would fall asleep to his voice.

The boy called him “Xiao Zhan,” as did everyone else now, and told Xiao Zhan that he could call him “Didi.” _I’m your little brother now_ , he said. _And you’re my big brother._

In a haze from the anesthetic drugs, Xiao Zhan just nodded and smiled at him. It was nice and warm to have someone like Didi accompanying him here. In his bedridden state, he wasn’t able to return the affection, but the younger boy did not seem to mind.

One day, Xiao Zhan woke up in the morning and the room was quiet. The other children were either still sleeping or staring off into the distance. The bed beside him was empty.

Perhaps Didi’s fever had gone down, so they took him out of the sick room. Perhaps he was bought by a family who had seen how talkative and cheerful he was. Perhaps…

Xiao Zhan never asked anyone. He’d learned not to ask questions.

At the end of the month, they deemed him healed enough. Xiao Zhan was dragged out of bed and herded into a room with a dozen other children. So many small, naked bodies in that sterile room. They looked like a can of squirming worms and he was nauseous.

The acid churned in his stomach. As it rose, it seemed to push himself further into his mind. He curled up within himself, squeezing himself smaller and smaller. He wished he could disappear.

The room was already quiet, but all sound faded now. The naked limbs and white walls fell away. All that remained was a nothingness. This kind of void had already existed before. Xiao Zhan had chanced upon it in the past, but this time, he wanted to stay for just a bit longer.

His body moved on its own accord while his mind was in the void. The jet-stream of harsh water sliced into his mind, but it could not push him out. He burrowed in deeper, deeper.

Memories of everything that happened afterward were very vague. Even in his later nightmares, there are just blurred figures, lights, hands shoving him here and there, a few words and snippets of phrases echoing in his mind.

He knew a nobleman bought him—the people of the orphanage had prettied him up, but the man didn’t seem to have bought him for that. Lord Wang liked that he was quiet and he especially liked the scar winding up his thigh like a venomous snake. He described his new pet as a china vase, broken and put back together—a tragic beauty. The others nodded, made sounds of awe, and clapped at his sense of poetry.

What finally forced Xiao Zhan back to this world was the splitting pain. The man seemed to want to tear him apart, break him apart like a watermelon and dig out the red flesh inside, letting the bloody liquid dribble down to his elbows. The pain mixed with heat burning in his gut. He struggled instinctively, but the man pinned him down easily and thrusted in even deeper.

Lord Wang had so many games and different toys that he wanted to experiment with. The boy could only do as he had been taught—obey and let his master do whatever he wanted to him.

(But it hurt so much.)

~ ~ ~

When Yibo’s father is home, Zanzan gets taken away from Yibo, disappearing into the master bedroom.

Yibo has no clue what Zanzan does in his father’s room on those nights. He never even thinks about asking his father and Yu-ma always changes the subject. Zanzan just shakes his head and clings to Yibo a bit more fiercely.

On those nights, he sleeps alone, trying to ignore the monsters hiding under his bed or the ghosts moaning somewhere in the mansion. Tonight, the sounds are too much.

Yibo wakes up from a nightmare in cold sweat. His pajamas stick to his skin uncomfortably. The windows are open and the hot summer breeze blows in, making the curtains billow. They look like struggling spirits.

Swallowing thickly, Yibo makes his way out of bed. He’s in a daze. He pushes open his bedroom door and pads softly down the hall with bare feet. Almost as if in a trance, he follows the cries. They surround him and echo throughout the dark mansion like the wails of a banshee.

But whose death is being warned?

Getting chills despite how hot he suddenly feels, Yibo shudders. But he continues forward.

As he nears his father’s bedroom, the wails get louder and louder. The screams are alive. They stab into him, dragging their claws down his back, prying into his brain. No… They are inside his mind, trying to rip their way out. When he reaches the master bedroom’s door—

Silence.

The mourning banshee falls silent as soon as Yibo reaches his father’s bedroom. So, was it all in his mind? He shakes his head, trying to get rid of the nightmare and its stringy tentacles. It felt so real though. He was almost bent over by the screams in his head. His thoughts are still clogged.

The silence is deafening.

The bedroom door looks like the awning mouth of an ominous monster from his nightmares.

He inches closer. Is Zanzan still in there? What is he doing in there? It’s the same question that appears in his mind every now and then, like a familiar ghost that never leaves this haunt. Now, it pushes him closer to the door.

A keening sound starts up again. It’s not inside his head—he is sure. The soft whimpers spill out from the tiny gap between the bottom of the door and the floor, wind up his leg, and snake into his ears. Almost instinctively, he raises his hand to the doorknob.

“Young Master!”

He spins around to see Yu-ma hurrying toward him. He turns again. The door is open.

“F-father?” he gasps.

The man stands in the awning mouth of a doorway, half-hidden in shadows. “What,” he says, “are you doing here.”

It is a demand, an order to say “get the fuck out,” rather than a question.

“Lord, the young master had a nightmare and was sleepwalking!” Yu-ma collects Yibo in her arms.

An asphyxiating silence passes. The door slams shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yu-ma raised both of them, but she still only sees her young master's pain
> 
> also, the next chapter is probably the most fucked up chapter i've ever written lol  
> please anticipate it :)))


	8. eight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls refresh your memory on the tags!

The bird dies.

Zanzan stops talking.

These two events are not implicitly related. They just happen in such a close sequence that one can’t help but overthink.

The morning after the sleepwalking fiasco, they find the little bird dead in its cage in the study. Yibo lets out a cry, but Zanzan just kneels beside the cage. He reaches a finger through the bars and strokes the bird softly as if in farewell.

Yu-ma comes quickly and wraps the bird up in the towel that lay on the bottom of the cage. Yibo doesn’t know what she does with it afterward.

As time goes on, Yibo learns of Zanzan’s habits and other little things. Zanzan does not tell him, of course. He just chances upon them, remembers them, and never speaks of them ever.

He notices the little black dot under Zanzan’s lip and he stares at it, one day.

Zanzan looks up at his fixated gaze in confusion.

“You have a dot,” Yibo says, poking it.

Zanzan doesn’t shy away from his touch. He bites his lip self-consciously and the skin pulls the mole a bit closer to his lips. “They said it’s a beauty mark,” he says softly.

Yibo continues to look at it, entranced. If Zanzan’s face is a beautiful story, then that is the period, but Yibo doesn’t wish for the story to end there. “If you ever get lost one day, just show your mole, and I’ll find you no matter what,” he declares with the dramatism of a boy who wants to rule the world.

Zanzan agrees. He doesn’t say, _I will never leave._ Instead, he says, “You will always find me.”

He learns that some of the angry red marks on the insides of his arms come from Zanzan himself. The others, littered all over his body, come from his father. He doesn’t ask how or why they came to be. He’s not sure he wants to know. He wants to stop the methodical red lines from appearing—scrawled onto Zanzan’s soft flesh like a prisoner ticking off the days in captivity—but he doesn’t know how to do that either.

He feels useless much of the time.

One night, Yibo can’t fall asleep. He gets up to wander around the mansion, purposely avoiding the master bedroom even though his father is not home. In the parlor, he sees Zanzan sitting before the French window. His forlorn silhouette is so small against the vast night sky.

Yibo sits down beside Zanzan and the latter shifts slightly to allow him into the private space.

“Zanzan, why aren’t you sleeping?” Yibo asks, his voice raspy from tiredness.

The boy in question looks at him and frowns slightly.

Yibo pouts in response. “I couldn’t fall asleep,” he explains quickly. “And you weren’t in my room anymore, so I came out. To find you.”

Zanzan takes Yibo’s hand. He has a habit of small touches—like holding onto Yibo’s sleeve, holding Yibo’s hand in his own smaller hands, holding onto Yibo softly but tightly as if it’s the lifeline that anchors him to this world.

Fourteen years old now, Yibo is a big boy and he wants to be there to comfort Zanzan when necessary. But instead, it’s usually Yibo himself who is plagued by recurrent nightmares and needs Zanzan’s presence when he wakes in the dead of the night.

He never knows how to comfort the older boy either. Zanzan is the one who chooses not to speak; Yibo is the one who doesn’t know what to say.

Taking Zanzan’s hand, he pulls him up, leads him back to his room. But instead of going to sleep, they sit in bed, facing the window again.

Yibo loves looking at the sky outside, just as he loves birds; Zanzan does too.

“Zanzan.” Yibo feels sleepier now that his head is resting on the other boy’s shoulder and the words come out. “Sometimes, it feels like you’re so far away.”

A pause. Yibo listens to Zanzan’s steady breathing.

“When you don’t talk for a long time, it’s like you’re somewhere inside your own head and I don’t know if you can hear me when I say your name. I can’t find you, sometimes. And I get scared.”

Zanzan never let go of his hand this entire time. Now, the grasp tightens a bit.

“Maybe it’s more fun in there?” Yibo wonders out loud. “But you know, whenever you wanna come out to play, I’ll always still be here.”

He can feel the slight differences of how the light fades from Zanzan’s eyes and he just becomes an empty shell. His body is still there, but what makes Zanzan _him_ —his soul, perhaps—is somewhere else. It happens more and more now and it takes longer and longer for Yibo to feel that Zanzan really is there, within grasp.

He understands—maybe—but he doesn’t really want to understand at all. He wants to go back to when he was still a little boy, afraid of only the monsters hiding under his bed.

(It hurts a little that even he isn’t enough to make Zanzan want to stay anymore.)

When the window curtain billows from the wind, Yibo catches glimpses of the dark sky outside. He can’t see many stars, but they’re still there—probably.

“I miss Mama,” Yibo mumbles suddenly. He’s never said this throughout the years. He doesn’t even have clear memories of his mother or know what is it exactly that he misses. But with Zanzan’s thin frame wrapped around him, he suddenly aches for something.

“When I had nightmares before, when my father wasn’t home, Mama would sing me to sleep.” There’s no point in him saying this either. He feels like a small petulant child again. Craning his neck, he looks up at the older boy. “Zanzan…”

 _Can you sing for me?_ goes unasked, but the question lingers in the air.

Resting in Zanzan’s embrace, he can feel the other boy’s heart beating through his back. A low hum travels with the vibrations, through his back, into his heart.

There is a world inside Zanzan’s mind. It is a harbor, a refuge that he built for himself, bit by bit throughout the years. Whenever the outside world crushes him and he wants to scream out but can’t, he curls up within himself and falls into this other world. There is nothing here, but he feels at peace in the nothingness.

He builds high walls around him—so high that he can’t even see the top of them. Each time he goes out, something happens that makes him scurry back. It’s so comfortable here and sometimes, he doesn’t understand why he should leave. There is a small door though, just in case he doesn’t actually want to stay here forever.

He can’t see the outside, but when he stands beside the door, he can feel a presence on the other side. The boy speaks to him every day, even when he does not respond. The voice travels through the walls, mixes in with the comfortable nothingness around him. It cushions him, holds him tenderly, protectively.

He knows that if he ever wants to venture out into the scary, painful world again, there is someone waiting for him, someone that he can hold onto.

 _Zanzan, where are you?_ the boy on the other side calls out one day. _I… miss you._

And so, he opens the door and reaches out a hand.

~ ~ ~

Wang Yibo grabs Xiao Zhan’s wrist and yanks him out of the parlor. It is close to midnight already and the corridors are unlit. Only moonlight streams in from the small windows that line the wall, illuminating their silhouettes.

Without a collar and leash around his neck anymore, there is less leeway for the slave. The master’s fingers dig into his wrist, boring down to the bone, and there is no way for him to struggle.

Not that he _would_ struggle.

But when the slave realizes the direction that he is being pulled toward, his body reacts instinctively. His body has never been his own. Never. And now, it balks and fights and wants to flee. His feet dig into the wooden floor and his arm flails, trying to break free from the iron grip.

All that results is that the slave collapses, falls to his knees, and Wang Yibo drags this dead weight forward to the master bedroom. The floor is not smooth. The slave’s bare legs get skinned as he is pulled mercilessly—the remains of his sad attempt to resist, spattered on the ground like the stains after one crushes an ant and flicks the body away.

Finally, he comes to a stop. Wang Yibo throws down the slave’s wrist as if the touch burns him with disgust. The slave lays in a heap before the bedroom door, sprawled like a pathetic dog.

Wang Yibo lowers onto one knee and grabs the slave’s neck, lifting him up.

“You remember what this room is, yes?” Wang Yibo asks, smirking. The curl of his lips is a shard of glass that digs into the slave’s chest. “I’m sure you do. You came here so often. It was from this room that I could hear your screams and cries.”

He pauses.

“I miss your voice,” Wang Yibo says, almost sadly.

His grip tightens and the slave gasps reflexively, mouth opening like a fish impaled by the hook. His entire body shudders, but Wang Yibo’s hold does not waver. Neither does his stare.

A beat of silence passes painfully. Then Wang Yibo rises, forcing the slave to his feet as well. With his free hand, Wang Yibo twists the knob. The door swings open with a creak, its hinges rusty from disuse.

This room has not been entered in years—ever since the old Lord Wang passed away. The slave’s struggles leave fresh marks in the layer of dust on the ground as Wang Yibo drags him to the bed in the center. Some sort of guttural, primal sound escapes from the slave, but Wang Yibo is not satisfied.

He throws the slave onto the bed. Amidst the puff of smoke that rises from the covers, Wang Yibo pins the slave down, one hand easily holding both slender, fragile wrists. With his other hand, he grabs a uselessly kicking foot and clasps the chain around the ankle. When the metal locks into place with a click, the slave falls still. It is like that first night when Wang Yibo found him—he has given himself up for whatever torment awaits him. The way he plays dead, the way he tries to escape from reality, the pitiful and cowardly way that he tries to protect himself with… Everything about him disgusts Wang Yibo.

“What do I have to do to hear your voice now?”

Wang Yibo leans in, looming over the slave. He is close enough that his hot breath can fog up the porcelain doll’s eyes, but tonight, those eyes are alive with fear.

“Do I have to do to you what my father did?”

He lets his hand trail down the slave’s body. The thin nightgown wrinkles under his touch, sliding up to reveal the slave’s abdomen. His lower half is completely bare. Wang Yibo has no interest in the exposed penis.

Throughout the years, many new scars and permanent marks have been painted onto this once-flawless canvas, but the most prominent one is still the jagged scar down his thigh. Wang Yibo traces it, up and down. The slave wills himself not to move, but he still tremors, and when Wang Yibo grasps his thigh, every muscle in his body goes taut.

Wang Yibo laughs in his face. Patting the slave’s cheek, he says, “Stay here, be good,” and stands up to leave.

Something—perhaps ghosts from the past—possesses the slave. He scrambles out of the bed and flounders to stop Wang Yibo from leaving. Feet entangled in the chain connected to the bedpost, he falls to the ground. He can only crawl on all fours and grab onto Wang Yibo’s leg, hugging it as if it’s his last straw of hope.

_Wang Yibo, you wanted to hear my voice._

_Do you hear it now? Do you hear it?_

_Please, please…_

Desperate pleading sounds escape from him, broken and sticky. It sounds like someone moaning in bed while getting fucked to oblivion and Wang Yibo snarls in annoyance. Spinning around, he kicks away the thing latched onto his leg. The slave cowers on the ground and looks up at him with shining eyes.

“Enjoy the night, _Daddy_.”

If he strains his ears, Wang Yibo can hear muffled whimpers through the heavy door, but it is probably just his imagination.

Yu-ma approaches him, shaking. “Young Master, Yatou can’t—”

Wang Yibo directs his gaze at her. “Yu-ma, why do you still call me by that title?”

The old woman blanches. “Y- M-master, I…”

“He spent just as many nights in that room as in his own.” Wang Yibo’s eyes flick over to the door, ominous like an awning mouth in the dark. “I know he has many memories to relive.”

(It is unnecessary for him to explain, but he does so anyway.)

Wang Yibo looks back at Yu-ma. She opens her mouth to say something, but it shuts under the weight of the master’s eyes. Bowing her head, she leaves Wang Yibo, the slave, the master bedroom.

~ ~ ~

Humans are prone to errors, especially when it comes to memories. Psychologists say that a memory is altered slightly every time you relive it in your mind.

You may try to bury the most painful memories, soften the edges, filter it with a grainy film, but no matter how hard you try, they will always come back to haunt you. Rise up from six feet under, shake off the dirt, and reveal their true ugly form. And you will be forced to remember.

~ ~ ~

The man stands in the awning mouth of a doorway, half-hidden in shadows. “What,” he says, “are you doing here.”

He takes up much of the doorway, but Yibo glimpses a boy on the bed in the depths of the room. Yibo blinks up at his father. The man is clearly drunk, but when he stares at his son, rather than the sourness of alcohol, he exudes something cold and ominous—restrained mania.

He smiles as an idea suddenly comes to mind. “Yibo, how about I teach you to be a man today?”

“Father—” The boy is pulled inside. The door slams shut.

The room is dimly lit as if his father knows that such things must be hidden away in the shadows. Yibo is grateful for it softens the horror when he sees Zanzan. The boy sits in the corner of the bed, knees pulled up to his chest. It doesn’t hide the fact that he is completely naked, save for the silver bands around his wrists, ankles and neck.

Yibo halts reflexively. His father gives him a sharp tug and he stumbles, almost falling onto the bed.

“Sit down, my son,” his father says, gesturing at the bed.

Yibo obeys dumbly.

“This is…” His father looks from Yibo to Zanzan and laughs. “He will help me teach you how to be a man. That is a father’s responsibility, after all. You can call him… your daddy. For the night.”

The man takes a seat in the armchair nearby and snaps his fingers. Like a trained dog, Zanzan starts crawling across the bed on all fours. The moonlight streaming in glints off his chains. Yibo’s mind goes blank.

Before he can process what is happening, Zanzan is before him. Zanzan’s hands reach for him, for his waistband—

Yibo scurries to the side and his head shoots up. “Father, Father, I—”

His father laughs heartily at his panic. “Yibo, relax,” he drawls. “Let your daddy take care of you.” Extending a foot lazily, he tugs the chain connecting the band on Zanzan’s one ankle to the bedpost.

The boy falls to his knees. The only sounds are the muffled thud from the ground and a gasp from Yibo. Pale, bony hands reach for his waistband again. This time, Yibo reacts, quickly putting his own hands over them, stopping him. Zanzan freezes momentarily, but he doesn’t stop.

Yibo’s pants pool around his ankles and he looks up at his father. The man gives him a satisfactory nod.

He kicks Zanzan. “Do I have to teach you what to do next?”

Yibo tries to search for an answer in Zanzan’s eyes, but the older boy keeps his head bowed as he spreads Yibo’s legs apart slightly and moves in. Yibo’s mind screams in confusion and fear. When his penis is captured in Zanzan’s mouth, the sudden hotness makes all the nerves in his body go haywire.

It feels _good_ in a way that he never imagined could be possible, but it is _so wrong_. He’s never felt something like this in all 14 years of his life.

“F-father,” he cries. His voice comes out wrong. It doesn’t sound like him.

“You should call out _Daddy_.” His father laughs from his front row seat of this show. “Keep going.”

The flashbulb memory of Zanzan kneeling before that man at the birthday party, trembling, blinds his senses. He grips the edge of the bed, trying to back away, to escape from this, but he can’t move.

“Father, he-he’s choking,” Yibo whimpers in horror, but the man keeps kicking at Zanzan to continue the obscene act. 

So Yibo sits there, immobilized; Zanzan kneels before him, gagging silently and choking on _him_. He is nauseous. But instead of vomit, it all builds up to some sort of perverted climax. He throws his head back, mouth opening like a fish getting gutted. He releases into Zanzan’s mouth and he slumps back, deflated, limp.

But his father springs up. Yanking on the chain around Zanzan’s neck, he pulls the boy’s head back and forces his mouth open.

“Do you see this?” he asks, almost with childish delight. Yibo stares at the white in Zanzan’s mouth, dribbling pathetically down his chin. “This is a sign that your slave has done his job.”

His father’s breath—hot and sour—sprays onto his face. He wants to throw up.

“Swallow.”

Head still yanked back, Zanzan swallows on demand and chokes. His Adam’s apple goes up and down painfully. Much of the white disappears, but it still stains his pink tongue. Yibo’s father drops him and returns to his seat.

“Continue.”

Zanzan wraps his lips around his dick again. The sensation burns every single one of his nerve endings and he cries out, “Father, I don’t…”

The man narrows his eyes. “You don’t what?”

He rises again and stalks over. Yibo cowers and flinches, but his father grabs Zanzan’s leash instead and drags the boy onto the bed. Under the hard eyes of his father, Yibo follows suit.

Zanzan moves with practiced—mechanic—ease. Nausea rises again and Yibo’s vision swims, but the naked ass stays in place before his eyes.

“Continue.”

He doesn’t know what to do. His penis betrays the horror that has taken over his mind.

Seeing the humiliatingly half-hard thing, his father chuckles. “Yes, yes, good boy. My son indeed.” He stands beside the bed and gives orders as if directing a grotesque play.

“Spread his ass.”

“Push yourself in.”

“Do it!”

“Thrust.”

“Yes, yes, thrust. Keep going.”

“My son, does it not feel good?”

Yibo is crying. Tears stream down his face without stop, but his body keeps going too. He’s scared of what else his father would make him do if this ends and it feels too much. Too much. He’s on fire and he grabs blindly, digging his fingers into whatever he can hold onto, and Zanzan is under him, trembling.

“Good, good.”

His father keeps repeating that with manic glee until the phonemes lose all meaning. It’s a siren going off in Yibo’s mind.

Good.

Good?

Yibo wishes he can see the other boy’s expression and maybe he can tell himself that this is all okay, but Zanzan’s face is buried into the bed—but it can’t hide the fact that he is shuddering and in so much pain. He feels the tightness around him, chafing dryly, drawing blood.

“Father, I’m hurting him I’m hurting him I’m—”

It’s like a fever dream. The room is dark, but everything feels too bright and psychedelic. It ends abruptly.

Yibo falls back onto the bed, gasping for breath. His fringe is matted against his forehead, sticky with sweat. His entire body tremors.

But it starts all over again. Terror seizes him again.

This time, his father coos in his ear, “You don’t have to do anything now. Relax and let your daddy make you feel good.”

Sweat trickles into his eyes and he’s crying again. He’s so _weak._ He hates himself for not doing anything, for doing all of this. Through the watery film, he watches Zanzan turn around and crawl over.

Wrists chained, Zanzan lifts both of them over Yibo’s head. The metal slinks against his neck. Then Zanzan lowers himself onto Yibo’s dick. Each time he moves up and down, the entangled chains on Zanzan’s ankles slide over Yibo’s thigh and the coldness sends shivers down his spine.

He stares at the other boy, at the way he exists both in the shadows and ivory light. He does all of this so fluidly as if he was _born_ to do this.

Yibo wants to throw up. _Oh god_ , his skin crawls with disgust, but he can’t stop the lewd sounds escaping from his mouth. His senses are buzzing with pleasure and he wants to throw up. He grabs Zanzan’s chin with one hand and forces the boy look down. Everything is blurred by the tears in his eyes, but moonlight hits the mole under Zanzan’s lip and it stabs into Yibo’s eyes.

The despair in Zanzan’s empty eyes makes his blood run cold.

 _No, no, no_ , he tries to say, shaking his head furiously. _Stop. Don’t do this._ But no words form. He can’t form any sounds except those moans that fall out of him, uncontrolled. He wants to scream.

Zanzan lowers his head and buries himself in the crook of Yibo’s neck. Yibo wraps his arms around Zanzan’s thin frame instinctively and a muffled sob breaks out of the older boy, his shoulders heaving.

In his seat, Yibo’s father spits angrily. “What the fuck did you stop for?”

Jerking Zanzan back, he pulls a whip hanging from the wall and cracks it against the boy.

“Father, no!”

The man’s crazed eyes focus on Yibo. Then, “You seem to really care for your daddy, is that it?” Without waiting for an answer, he lets the whip fall down on his son.

“Yibo!”

He feels the sting of the whip, but more so, he feels a push and Zanzan’s arms around him. In the asphyxiating silence that follows, he stares at up at his father. The man narrows his eyes and cocks his head.

Slowly, slowly, his lips curl into a sneer. “So you do know how to talk, hm?”

He wrenches Zanzan’s collar back, ripping the boy away from Yibo. Tossing him to the side, the man focuses back on Yibo.

“What have you two been doing behind my back, hm?” he asks, eerily calm and conversational. His eyes gleam. He grips Yibo’s arm and starts pulling him away from the bed. “It is time for you to go to bed now, my son.”

“W-wait, Father, I—no…” Yibo’s pajama pants, long forgotten around his ankles, tangle with his feet and he stumbles. He cranes his neck to look at Zanzan but all he catches a glimpse of is something that looks like the empty shell of a boy. He trips and falls uselessly to the ground.

His father pays no heed. He manhandles Yibo and throws him out of the room. The door slams in his face. Yibo scrambles up and pounds on the heavy wood, sobbing hysterically for something that he doesn’t even truly understand, but he can already hear the pained cries start up on the other side.

He wakes up in his own bed.

Everything hurts.

But he throws the covers aside and races to the master bedroom. He has to see Zanzan. Has to see if he’s okay, has to see if he’s still there, has to see him.

~ ~ ~

Wang Yibo throws the door open.

The slave is curled up on the ground, as far away from the bed as possible with the chain pulled taut. The light from the hallway frames him like a halo. At the sound, the slave jerks up and scrambles back. As if, when faced with Wang Yibo, even the nightmarish trauma from the bed is less frightening.

But Wang Yibo grabs him. Wang Yibo falls to his knees and _embraces_ him. Holding the slave, rigid in his arms, Wang Yibo crumbles.

He hates Xiao Zhan for enduring all that they’d gone through together, taking the pain silently for so many years just to abandon him without a single word one night years later, leaving him alone in this kind of world. He hates himself more.

“I’m sorry.”

_Sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, that's that... little yibo finally learned first-hand what zanzan has to go through, big yibo might stop being an asshole :D
> 
> \+ this was actually my project for nanowrimo, but these 8 chapters are all i wrote in that month (so i clearly failed). i updated slowly, thinking that i'll be able to finish writing while updating, but 4 months later, i only wrote 1 more chapter... anyway, thank you for bearing with my slowass updates. i have an inability to write long fics TT


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